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SYLVIE: 
(SOUVENIRS  DU  VALOIS.) 


G&RARD  T>E 


OF  all  that  were  thy  prisons  —  ah,  untamed, 
Ah,  light  and  sacred  soul!  —  none  holds  thee  now  ; 
No  wall,  no  bar,  no  body  of  flesh,  but  thou 
Art  free  and  happy  in  the  lands  unnamed, 
Within  whose  gates,  on  weary  wings  and  maimed, 
Thou  still  would'  st  bear  that  mystic  golden  bough 
The  Sibyl  doth  to  singing  men  allow, 
Yet  thy  report  folk  heeded  not,  but  blamed. 

And  they  would  smile  and  wonder,  seeing  where 

Thou  stood'  st,  to  watch  light  leaves,  or  clouds,  or  wind, 

Dreamily  murmuring  a  ballad  air, 

Caught  from  the  yalois  peasants  ;  dost  thou  find 

A  new  life  gladder  than  the  old  times  were, 
<A  love  more  fair  than  Sylvie,  and  as  kind? 

ANDREW   LANG. 


S  YLVIE : 

SOUVENIRS  DUVALOIS 

TRANSLATED  FROM  GERARD 

DE  NERVAL  BY 

LUCIE  PAGE 


Portland,  Maine 
MAS  <B.3AO8 

Mdcccxcvi 


Tbis  First  Edition  on 
Van  G elder  paper  con- 
sists 0/925  copies. 


COPYRIGHT 

THOMAS  B.  MOSHER 

1896 


22.^0 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SYLVIE  ET  AUR^LIE. — ANDREW  LANG  vii 

GERARD  DE  NERVAL     .        1        .        .  ix 
SYLVIE  : 

I    A  WASTED  NIGHT         .        .  3 

II    ADRIENNE         .        .        .        .  IO 

III  RESOLVE        ....  14 

IV  A  VOYAGE  TO  CYTHERA  .        .  1 8 
V    THE  VILLAGE        .'       »        .  22 

VI    ORTHYS    ,  ,       .      -.  '      ..       .26 

VII    CHAALIS        *        •        •.       »  32 

VIII    THE  BALL  AT  LOISY         .        .  36 

IX    HERMENONVILLE  .        .        .  40 

X    BIG  CURLY-HEAD      .        .    :    .  45 

XI    RETURN         .       ^        .       V  49 

V 


SYLVIE:    (CONTINUED.) 

XII    FATHER  DODU  . 

XIII  AURELIE 

XIV  THE  LAST  LEAF 

APPENDIX  . 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

•  •    54 
.       58 

•  •    63 

.       69 


SYLYIE  ET  AUR&LIE. 

IN  MEMORY  OF  GERARD  *DE  UERVAL. 

Two  loves  Here  were,  and  one  was  born 
Between  the  sunset  and  the  rain; 
Her  singing  voice  went  through  the  corn, 
Her  dance  was  woven  'neath  the  thorn, 
On  grass  the  fallen  blossoms  stain; 
And  suns  may  set  and  moons  may  wane, 
But  this  love  comes  no  more  again. 

There  were  two  loves,  and  one  made  white 

Thy  singing  lips  and  golden  hair; 
Born  of  the  city's  mire  and  light, 
The  shame  and  splendour  of  the  night, 
She  trapped  and  fled  thee  unaware  ; 
&{pt  through  the  lamplight  and  the  rain 
Shalt  thou  behold  this  love  again. 

Go  forth  and  seek,  by  wood  and  hill, 
Thine  ancient  love  of  dawn  and  dew  ; 

There  comes  no  voice  from  mere  or  rill, 

Her  dance  is  over,  fallen  still 

The  ballad  burdens  that  she  knew : 

And  thou  must  wait  for  her  in  vain, 

Till  years  bring  back  thy  youth  again. 


SYLVIE   ET  AURELIE 

That  other  love,  afield,  afar 
Fled  the  light  love,  with  lighter  feet. 

Nay,  though  thou  seek  where  gravesteads  are, 

tAndflit  in  dreams  from  star  to  star. 
That  dead  love  thou  shalt  never  meet, 

Till  through  bleak  dawn  and  blowing  rain 

Thy  soul  shall  find  her  soul  again. 


ANDREW   LANG. 


GERARD  DE  NERVAL 


II  a  toujours  cherche*  dans  le  monde 
ce  que  le  monde  ne  pouvait  plus  lui 
donner. 

LUDOVIC  HALHVY. 


He  has  been  a  sick  man  all  his  life. 
He  was  always  a  seeker  after  some- 
thing in  the  world  that  is  there  in  no 
satisfying  measure,  or  not  at  all. 

WALTER   PATER. 


GERARD  DE  NERVAL. 
I. 

OF  Gerard  de  Nerval,  whose  true  name 
was  Gerard  Labrunie,  it  has  been  finely 
said :  "  His  was  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the 
lost  souls  of  the  French  Romance."1  Born 
in  1808,  he  came  to  his  death  by  suicide  one 
dark  winter  night  towards  the  end  of  January, 
1855. 

The  story  of  this  life  and  its  tragic  finale 
was  well  known  at  the  time  to  all  men  of 
letters,  —  Theophile  Gautier,  Paul  de  Saint- 
Victor,  Arsene  Houssaye, — friends  who  never 
forgot  the  young  poet  even  after  he  went  the 
way  that  madness  lies.  For  it  was  insanity, — 
a  nostalgia  of  the  soul  always  imminent  — 
that  led  him  into  the  squalid  Rue  de  la 
Vieille-Lanterne>  in  which  long  forgotten 


i  See  <A  Century  of  French  Verse,  translated  and 
edited  by  William  John  Robertson  (410,  London,  1895). 

xi 


GERARD    DE   NERVAL 

corner  of  old  Paris  his  dead  body  was  found 
one  bleak  belated  dawn.  And  this  was  forty 
years  ago. 

In  later  days  Maxime  du  Camp  and  Ludo- 
vic  Halevy  have  retold  with  great  feeling  the 
history  of  Gerard,  his  early  triumphs,  his 
love  for  Jenny  Colon,  —  the  Aurelie  of  these 
Souvenirs  du  Valois,  —  and  how  at  last  life's 
scurrile  play  was  ended. 

II. 

One  of  Mr.  Andrew  Lang's  most  genuine 
appreciations  occurs  in  an  epistle  addressed 
to  Miss  Girton,  Cambridge;  where,  for  the 
benefit  of  that  mythical  young  person,  he 
translates  a  few  passages  out  of  Sylvie,  and 
favours  us  with  a  specimen  of  Gerard's  verse. 

"I  translated  these  fragments,"  he  tells 
her,  "  long  ago  in  one  of  the  first  things  I  ever 
tried  to  write.  The  passages  are  as  touching 
and  fresh,  the  originals,  I  mean,  as  when  first 
I  read  them,  and  one  hears  the  voice  of 
Sylvie  singing: 

'*A  ^Dammartin,  Vy  a  trois  belles  filles, 
L'y  en  a  %'une  plus  belle  que  le  jour,' 

So  Sylvie  married  a  confectioner,  and,  like 
Marion  in  the  '  Ballad  of  Forty  Years,'  « Ad- 
rienne's  dead "  in  a  convent.  That  is  all  the 
story,  all  the  idyl.*' 


GERARD   DE   NERVAL 

And  just  before  this  he  has  said  of  Gerard : 
"  What  he  will  live  by,  is  his  story  of  Sylvie ; 
it  is  one  of  the  little  masterpieces  of  the 
world.  It  has  a  Greek  perfection.  One 
reads  it,  and  however  old  one  is,  youth  comes 
back,  and  April,  and  a  thousand  pleasant 
sounds  of  birds  in  hedges,  of  wind  in  the 
boughs,  of  brooks  trotting  merrily  under  the 
rustic  bridges.  And  this  fresh  nature  is 
peopled  by  girls  eternally  young,  natural,  gay, 
or  pensive,  standing  with  eager  feet  on  the 
threshold  of  their  life,  innocent,  expectant, 
with  the  old  ballads  of  old  France  upon  their 
lips.  For  the  story  is  full  of  these  artless, 
lisping  numbers  of  the  popular  French  muse, 
the  ancient  ballads  that  Gerard  collected  and 
put  into  the  mouth  of  Sylvie,  the  pretty 
peasant-girl." 

One  more  quotation  from  Mr.  Lang,  and 
we  are  done.  Sylvie  and  Gerard  have  met, 
and  they  go  on  a  visit  to  her  aunt,  who,  while 
she  prepares  dinner,  sends  Gerard  for  her 
niece,  who  had  "gone  to  ransack  the  peasant 
treasures  in  the  garret."  "  Two  portraits  were 
hanging  there  —  one,  that  of  a  young  man  of 
the  good  old  times,  smiling  with  red  lips  and 
brown  eyes,  a  pastel  in  an  oval  frame.  An- 
other medallion  held  the  portrait  of  his  wife, 
gay,  piquante,  in  a  bodice  with  ribbons  flut- 
tering, and  with  a  bird  perched  on  her  ringer. 


GERARD    DE    NERVAL 

It  was  the  old  aunt  in  her  youth,  and  further 
search  discovered  her  ancient  festal-gown,  of 
stiff  brocade,  Sylvie  arrayed  herself  in  this 
splendour;  patches  were  found  in  a  box  of 
tarnished  gold,  a  fan,  a  necklace  of  amber." 
This  is  the  charming  moment  chosen  by 
M.  Andhre  des  Gachons  as  the  subject  of 
his  aquarelle,  reproduced  in  colour  as  frontis- 
piece to  the  present  edition. 

III. 

In  thus  bringing  out  a  fresh  version  of 
Sylvie,  not  to  include  the  all  too  few  illusive 
lyrics  "  done  into  English  "  by  Mr.  Lang,  his 
exquisite  sonnet  on  Gerard,  and  the  lovely 
lines  upon  "Sylvie  et  Aurelie,"  were  a  de- 
plorable omission.  The  sonnet  exists  in  an 
earlier  form ;  preferably,  the  later  version  is 
here  given. 

Of  De  Nerval's  prose  little  has  yet  found 
its  way  to  us.  His  poetry  is  fully  as  inacces- 
sible. Things  of  such  iridescent  hue  are 
possibly  beyond  the  art  of  translation.  They 
are  written  in  an  unknown  tongue ;  say,  rath- 
er, in  the  language  of  Dreamland,  "vaporous, 
unaccountable";  —  a  world  of  crepuscular 
dawns,  as  of  light  irradiated  from  submerged 
sea  caverns, —  "the  mermaid's  haunt"  beheld 
of  him  alone. 


GERARD   DE   NERVAL 

IV. 

With  what  adieux  shall  we  now  take  leave 
of  our  little  pearl  of  a  story  ?  And  of  him 
who  gave  us  this  exquisite  creation  of  heart 
and  brain  what  words  remain  to  say  ? 

Thou,  Sylvie,  art  an  unfading  flower  of 
virginal,  soft  Spring,  and  faint,  elusive  skies. 
For  thee  Earth's  old  sweet  nights  have  shed 
their  tenderest  dews,  and  in  thy  lovely  Valois 
land  thou  canst  not  fade  or  die. 

Thy  lover,  child,  fared  forth  beneath  an 
alien  star.  For  him  there  was  no  true  coun- 
try, here;  —  no  return  to  thy  happy-hearted 
love :  the  desert  sands  long  since  effaced  the 
valley  track.  Only  the  far  distant  lying, — 
the  abyss  that  calls  and  is  never  dumb,  urged 
his  onward  steps.  And  these  things,  and  this 
divine  homesickness  led  him,  pale  nympho- 
lept,  beyond  Earth's  human  shores.  Thither 
to  thee,  rapt  Soul,  shall  all  bright  dreams  of 
day,  all  lonely  visions  of  the  night,  converge 
at  last. 


\ 


SYLVIE : 
(SOUVENIRS  DU  VALOIS.) 


OLD  TUNE. 

GERARD  <DE  NERYAL. 

THERE  is  an  air  for  which  I  would  disown 
Mozart's,  Rossini's,  Weber's  melodies, — 
A  sweet^  sad  air  that  languishes  and  sighs, 
And  keeps  its  secret  charm  for  me  alone. 

Whene'er  I  hear  that  music  vague  and  old, 
Two  hundred  years  are  mist  that  rolls  away ; 

The  thirteenth  Louis  reigns,  and  I  behold 
iA  green  land  golden  in  the  dying  day. 

An  old  red  castle,  strong  with  stony  towers, 
The  windows  gay  with  many  coloured  glass  ; 

Wide  plains,  and  rivers  flowing  among  flowers, 
That  bathe  the  castle  basement  as  they  pass. 

In  antique  weed,  with  dark  eyes  and  gold  hair, 
A  lady  looks  forth  from  her  window  high; 

It  may  be  that  I  knew  and  found  her  fair, 
In  some  forgotten  life,  long  time  gone  by. 

-  (ANDREW   LANG.) 


SYLVIE 

(RECOLLECTIONS  OF  VALOIS.) 

I. 

A  WASTED  NIGHT. 

I  PASSED  out  of  a  theatre  .where  I  was 
wont  to  appear  nightly,  in  the  proscenium 
boxes,  in  the  attitude  of  suitor.  Sometimes  it 
was  full,  sometimes  nearly  empty;  it  mattered 
little  to  me,  Whether  a  handful  of  listless 
spectators  occupied  the  pit,  while  antiquated 
costumes  formed  a  doubtful  setting  for  the 
boxes,  or  whether  I  made  one  of  an  audience 
swayed  by  emotion,  crowned  at  every  tier 
with  flower-decked  robes,  flashing  gems  and 
radiant  faces.  The  spectacle  of  the  house 
left  me  indifferent,  that  of  the  stage  could  not 
fix  my  attention  until  at  the  second  or  third 
scene  of  a  dull  masterpiece  of  the  period,  a 
familiar  vision  illumined  the  vacancy,  and  by 


SYLVIE 

a  word  and  a  breath,  gave  life  to  the  shadowy 
forms  around  me. 

I  felt  that  my  life  was  linked  with  hers; 
her  smile  filled  me  with  immeasurable  bliss; 
the  tones  of  her  voice,  so  sweet  and  sonorous, 
thrilled  me  with  love  and  joy.  My  ardent 
fancy  endowed  her  with  every  perfection 
until  she  seemed  to  respond  to  all  my  rap- 
tures —  beautiful  as  day  in  the  blaze  of  the 
footlights,  pale  as  night  when  their  glare  was 
lowered  and  rays  from  the  chandelier  above 
revealed  her,  lighting  up  the  gloom  with  the 
radiance  of  her  beauty,  like  those  divine 
Hours  with  starry  brows,  which  stand  out 
against  the  dark  background  of  the  frescoes 
of  Herculaneum. 

For  a  whole  year  I  had  not  sought  to  know 
what  she  might  be,  in  the  world  outside,  fear- 
ing to  dim  the  magic  mirror  which  reflected 
to  me  her  image.  Some  idle  gossip,  it  is  true, 
touching  the  woman,  rather  than  the  actress, 
had  reached  my  ears,  but  I  heeded  it  less  than 
any  floating  rumours  concerning  the  Princess 
of  Elis  or  the  Queen  of  Trebizonde,  for  I  was 
on  my  guard.  An  uncle  of  mine  whose  man- 
ner of  life  during  the  period  preceding  the 
close  of  the  eighteenth  century,  had  given 
him  occasion  to  know  them  well,  had  warned 
me  that  actresses  were  not  women,  since  nature 
had  forgotten  to  give  them  hearts.  He  re- 


SYLVIE 

ferred,  no  doubt,  to  those  of  his  own  day,  but 
he  related  so  many  stories  of  his  illusions  and 
disappointments,  and  displayed  so  many  por- 
traits upon  ivory,  charming  medallions  which 
he  afterwards  used  to  adorn  his  snuff-boxes, 
so  many  yellow  love-letters  and  faded  tokens, 
each  with  its  peculiar  history,  that  I  had  come 
to  think  ill  of  them  as  a  class,  without  con- 
sidering the  march  of  time. 

We  were  living  then  in  a  strange  period, 
such  as  often  follows  a  revolution,  or  the  de- 
cline of  a  great  reign.  The  heroic  gallantry 
of  the  Fronde,  the  drawing-room  vice  of  the 
Regency,  the  scepticism  and  mad  orgies  of  the 
Directory,  were  no  more.  It  was  a  time  of 
mingled  activity,  indecision  and  idleness,  bright 
Utopian  dreams,  philosophic  or  religious  aspira- 
tions, vague  ardour,  dim  instincts  of  rebirth, 
weariness  of  past  discords,  uncertain  hopes,  — 
an  age  somewhat  like  that  of  Peregrinus  and 
Apuleius.  The  material  man  yearned  for  the 
roses  which  should  regenerate  him,  from  the 
hands  of  the  fair  Isis;  the  goddess  appeared  to 
us  by  night,  in  her  eternal  youth  and  purity, 
inspiring  in  us  remorse  for  the  hours  wasted 
by  day;  and  yet,  ambition  suited  not  our 
years,  while  the  greedy  strife,  the  mad  chase 
in  pursuit  of  honour  and  position,  held  us 
aloof  from  every  possible  sphere  of  activity. 
Our  only  refuge  was  the  ivory  tower  of  the 


SYLVIE 

poets  whither  we  climbed  higher  and  higher  to 
escape  the  crowd.  Upon  the  heights  to  which 
our  masters  guided  us,  we  breathed  at  last  the 
pure  air  of  solitude,  we  quaffed  oblivion  in  the 
golden  cup  of  fable,  we  were  drunk  with 
poetry  and  love.  Love,  alas !  of  airy  forms, 
of  rose  and  azure  tints,  of  metaphysical  phan- 
toms. Seen  nearer,  the  real  woman  repelled 
our  ingenuous  youth  which  required  her  to 
appear  as  a  queen  or  a  goddess,  and  above  all, 
inapproachable. 

Some  of  our  number  held  these  platonic 
paradoxes  in  light  esteem,  and  athwart  our 
mystic  reveries  brandished  at  times  the  torch 
of  the  deities  of  the  underworld,  that  flames 
through  the  darkness  for  an  instant  with  its 
train  of  sparks.  Thus  it  chanced  that  on 
quitting  the  theatre  with  the  sense  of  bitter 
sadness  left  by  a  vanished  dream,  I  turned 
with  pleasure  to  a  club  where  a  party  of  us 
used  to  sup,  and  where  all  depression  yielded 
to  the  inexhaustible  vivacity  of  a  few  brilliant 
wits,  whose  stormy  gaiety  at  times  rose  to 
sublimity.  Periods  of  renewal  or  decadence 
always  produce  such  natures,  and  our  discus- 
sions often  became  so  animated  that  timid 
ones  in  the  company  would  glance  from  the 
window  to  see  if  the  Huns,  the  Turkomans  or 
the  Cossacks  were  not  coming  to  put  an  end 
to  these  disputations  of  sophists  and  rhetori- 


SYLVIE 

cians.  "  Let  us  drink,  let  us  love,  this  is 
wisdom !  "  was  the  code  of  the  younger  mem- 
bers. One  of  them  said  to  me :  "  I  have 
noticed  for  some  time  that  I  always  meet  you 
in  the  same  theatre.  For  which  one  do  you 
go?"  Which!  why,  it  seemed  impossible 
to  go  there  for  another !  However,  I  con- 
fessed the  name.  "  Well,"  said  my  friend 
kindly,  "yonder  is  the  happy  man  who  has 
just  accompanied  her  home,  and  who,  in 
accordance  with  the  rules  of  our  clab,  will 
not  perhaps  seek  her  again  till  night  is 
over." 

With  slight  emotion  I  turned  toward  the 
person  designated,  and  perceived  a  young  man, 
well  dressed,  with  a  pale,  restless  face,  good 
manners,  and  eyes  full  of  gentle  melancholy. 
He  flung  a  gold  piece  on  the  card-table  and 
lost  it  with  indifference.  "  What  is  it  to  me?  " 
said  I,  "he  or  another?"  There  must  be 
someone,  and  he  seemed  worthy  of  her  choice. 
"  And  you  ?  "  "  I  ?  I  chase  a  phantom,  that  is 
all." 

On  my  way  out,  I  passed  through  the  reading- 
room  and  glanced  carelessly  at  a  newspaper,  to 
learn,  I  believe,  the  state  of  the  stock  market. 
In  the  wreck  of  my  fortunes,  there  chanced  to 
be  a  large  investment  in  foreign  securities,  and 
it  was  reported  that,  although  long  disowned, 
they  were  about  to  be  acknowledged  ;  —  and, 


SYLVIE 

indeed,  this  had  just  happened  in  consequence 
of  a  change  in  the  ministry.  The  bonds  were 
quoted  high,  so  I  was  rich  again. 

A  single  thought  was  occasioned  by  this  sud- 
den change  of  fortune,  that  the  woman  whom 
I  had  loved  so  long,  was  mine,  if  I  wished.  My 
ideal  was  within  my  grasp,  or  was  it  only  one 
more  disappointment,  a  mocking  misprint? 
No,  for  the  other  papers  gave  the  same  figures, 
while  the  sum  which  I  had  gained  rose  before 
me  like  the  golden  statue  of  Moloch. 

"  What,"  thought  I,  "  would  that  young  man 
say,  if  I  were  to  take  his  place  by  the  woman 
whom  he  has  left  alone? " 

I  shrunk  from  the  thought,  and  my  pride 
revolted.  Not  thus,  not  at  my  age,  dare  I  slay 
love  with  gold !  I  will  not  play  the  tempter ! 
Besides,  such  an  idea  belongs  to  the  past.  Who 
can  tell  me  that  this  woman  may  be  bought? 
My  eyes  glanced  idly  over  the  journal  in  my 
hand,  and  I  noticed  two  lines:  "Provincial 
Bouquet  Festival.  To-morrow  the  archers  of 
Senlis  will  present  the  bouquet  to  the  archers 
of  Loisy."  These  simple  words  aroused  in  me 
an  entirely  new  train  of  thought,  stirring  long- 
forgotten  memories  of  provincial  days,  faint 
echoes  of  the  artless  joys  of  youth. 

The  horn  and  the  drum  were  resounding  afar 
in  hamlet  and  forest;  the  young  maidens  were 
twining  garlands  as  they  sang,  and  binding 

8 


SYLVIE 

nosegays  with  ribbon.  A  heavy  wagon,  drawn 
by  oxen,  received  their  offerings  as  it  passed, 
and  we,  the  children  of  that  region,  formed  the 
escort  with  our  bows  and  arrows,  assuming 
the  proud  title  of  knights,  —  we  did  not  know 
that  we  were  only  preserving,  from  age  to  age, 
an  ancient  feast  of  the  Druids  that  had  survived 
later  religions  and  monarchies. 


II. 

ADRIENNE. 

I  SOUGHT  my  bed,  but  not  to  sleep,  and,  lost 
in  a  half-conscious  revery,  all  my  youth 
passed  before  me.  How  often,  in  the  border- 
land of  dreams,  while  yet  the  mind  repels 
their  encroaching  fancies,  we  are  enabled  to 
review  in  a  few  moments,  the  important  events 
of  a  lifetime ! 

I  saw  a  castle  of  the  time  of  Henry  IV., 
with  its  slate-covered  turrets,  its  reddish  front, 
jutting  corners  of  yellow  stone,  and  a  stretch 
of  green  bordered  by  elms  and  lime-trees, 
through  whose  foliage,  the  setting  sun  shot  its 
last  fiery  rays.  Young  girls  were  dancing  in 
a  ring  on  the  lawn,  singing  quaint  old  tunes 
caught  from  their  mothers,  in  a  French  whose 
native  purity  bespoke  the  old  country  of 
Valois,  where  for  more  than  a  thousand  years 
had  throbbed  the  heart  of  France.  I  was  the 
only  boy  in  the  circle  where  I  had  led  my 
young  companion,  Sylvie,  a  little  maid  from 


10 


SYLVIE 

the  neighboring  hamlet,  so  fresh  and  animated, 
with  her  black  eyes,  regular  features  and 
slightly  sun-burned  skin.  I  loved  but  her, 
I  had  eyes  but  for  her  —  till  then !  I  had 
scarcely  noticed  in  our  round,  a  tall,  beautiful 
blonde,  called  Adrienne,  when  suddenly,  in 
following  the  figures  of  the  dance,  she  was 
left  alone  with  me,  in  the  centre  of  the  ring; 
we  were  of  the  same  height,  and  they  bade 
me  kiss  her,  while  the  dance  and  song  went 
whirling  on,  more  merrily  than  before.  When 
I  kissed  her,  I  could  not  forbear  pressing  her 
hand;  her  golden  curls  touched  my  cheek, 
and  from  that  moment,  a  new  feeling  pos- 
sessed me. 

The  fair  girl  must  sing  a  song  to  reclaim 
her  place  in  the  dance,  and  we  seated  our- 
selves about  her.  In  a  sweet,  penetrating 
voice,  somewhat  husky,  as  is  common  in  that 
country  of  mists  and  fogs,  she  sang  one  of 
those  old  ballads  full  of  love  and  sorrow, 
which  always  carry  the  story  of  an  imprisoned 
princess,  shut  in  a  tower  by  her  father,  as  a 
punishment  for  loving.  At  the  end  of  every 
stanza,  the  melody  died  away  in  those  quaver- 
ing trills  which  enable  young  voices  to  simulate 
so  well  the  tremulous  notes  of  old  women. 

While  she  sang,  the  shadows  of  the  great 
trees  lengthened  and  the  light  of  the  young 
moon  fell  full  upon  her,  as  she  stood  apart 


from  the  rapt  circle.  The  lawn  was  covered 
with  rising  clouds  of  mist  that  trailed  its  white 
wreaths  over  every  blade  of  grass.  We  thought 
ourselves  in  Paradise.  The  song  ended  and 
no  one  dared  break  the  stillness  —  at  last  I 
rose  and  ran  to  the  gardens  where  some 
laurels  were  growing  in  large  porcelain  vases 
painted  in  monochrome.  I  plucked  two 
branches  which  were  twined  into  a  crown, 
bound  with  ribbon,  and  I  placed  it  upon 
Adrienne's  brow,  where  its  glossy  leaves 
gleamed  above  her  fair  locks  in  the  pale 
moonlight.  She  looked  liked  Dante's  Beatrice, 
smiling  at  the  poet  as  he  strayed  on  the  con- 
fines of  the  Blest  Abodes. 

Adrienne  rose  and,  drawing  up  her  slender 
figure,  bowed  to  us  gracefully  and  ran  back  to 
the  castle;  they  said  she  was  the  child  of  a 
race  allied  to  the  ancient  kings  of  France,  that 
the  blood  of  the  Valois  princes  flowed  in  her 
veins.  Upon  this  festal  day,  she  had  been 
permitted  to  join  in  our  sports,  but  we  were 
not  to  see  her  again,  for  on  the  morrow  she 
would  return  to  the  convent  of  which  she  was 
an  inmate. 

When  I  rejoined  Sylvie,  I  found  her  weep- 
ing because  of  the  crown  I  had  given  to  the 
fair  singer.  I  offered  to  make  another  for  her, 
but  she  would  not  consent,  saying  she  did  not 
merit  it.  I  vainly  tried  to  vindicate  myself, 


12 


SYLVIE 

but  she  refused  to  speak  as  we  went  the 
homeward  way. 

Paris  soon  recalled  me  to  resume  my  studies, 
and  I  bore  with  me  the  two-fold  memory  of  a 
tender  friendship  sadly  broken,  and  of  a  love 
uncertain  and  impossible,  the  source  of  pain- 
ful musings  which  my  college  philosophy  was 
powerless  to  dispel. 

Adrienne's  face  alone  haunted  me,  a  vision 
of  glory  and  beauty,  sweetening  and  sharing 
the  hours  of  arduous  study. 

In  the  vacation  of  the  following  year,  I 
learned  that  this  lovely  girl,  who  had  but 
flitted  past  me,  was  destined  by  her  family  to  a 
religious  life. 


III. 

RESOLVE. 

THESE  memories,  recalled  in  my  dreamy 
revery,  explained  everything.  This  hope- 
less passion  for  an  actress,  which  took  posses- 
sion of  me  nightly  from  the  hour  when  the 
curtain  rose  until  I  fell  asleep,  was  born  of 
my  remembrance  of  Adrienne,  the  pale  moon- 
flower,  as  she  glided  over  the  green,  a  rose- 
tinted  vision  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  misty 
whiteness.  The  likeness  of  a  face  long  years 
forgotten  was  now  distinctly  outlined  ;  it  was  a 
pencil-sketch,  which  time  had  blurred,  devel- 
oped into  a  painting,  like  the  first  drafts  of  the 
old  masters  which  delight  us  in  a  gallery,  the 
completed  masterpiece  being  found  elsewhere. 
To  fall  in  love  with  a  nun  in  the  guise  of  an 
actress !...  suppose  they  were  one  and  the 
same  !  —  it  is  enough  to  drive  one  mad,  a  fatal 
mystery,  drawing  me  on  like  a  will  o'  the  wisp 
flitting  over  the  rushes  of  a  stagnant  pool.  Let 
us  keep  a  firm  foothold  on  reality. 


SYLVIE  . 

Sylvie,  too,  whom  I  loved  so  dearly,  why 
had  I  forgotten  her  for  three  long  years  ?  She 
was  a  charming  girl,  the  prettiest  maiden  in 
Loisy;  surely  she  still  lives,  pure  and  good. 
I  can  see  her  window,  with  the  creeper  twin- 
ing around  the  rose-bush,  and  the  cage  of 
linnets  hanging  on  the  left;  I  can  hear  the 
click  of  her  bobbins  and  her  favourite  song : 

La  belle  etait  assise 

*Ptt^5  du  ruisseau  coulant  .  .  .  / 

She  is  still  waiting  for  me.  Who  would  wed 
her,  so  poor?  The  men  of  her  native  village 
are  sturdy  peasants  with  rough  hands  and 
gaunt,  tanned  faces.  I,  the  "  little  Parisian," 
had  won  her  heart  in  my  frequent  visits  near 
Loisy,  to  my  poor  uncle,  now  dead.  For  the 
past  three  years  I  have  been  squandering  like 
a  lord  the  modest  inheritance  left  by  him, 
which  might  have  sufficed  for  a  lifetime,  and 
Sylvie,  I  know,  would  have  helped  me  save  it. 
Chance  returns  me  a  portion,  it  is  not  too  late, 

What  is  she  doing  now  ?  She  must  be 
asleep.  .  .  .  No,  she  is  not  asleep ;  to-day  is 
the  Feast  of  the  Bow,  the  only  one  in  the  year 
when  the  dance  goes  on  all  night.  .  .  .  She 
is  there.  What  time  is  it?  I  had  no  watch. 

Amongst  a  profusion  of  ornaments,  which 
it  was  then  the  fashion  to  collect,  in  order  to 

i    The  maiden  was  sitting 
Beside  the  swift  stream. 


restore  the  local  colour  of  an  old-time  interior, 
there  gleamed  with  freshly  polished  lustre, 
one  of  those  tortoise-shell  clocks  of  the  Re- 
naissance, whose  gilded  dome,  surmounted  by 
a  figure  of  Time,  was  supported  by  caryatides 
in  the  style  of  the  Medici,  resting  in  their 
turn  upon  rearing  steeds.  The  historic  Diana, 
leaning  upon  her  stag,  was  in  bas-relief  under 
the  face,  where,  upon  an  inlaid  background, 
enameled  figures  marked  the  hours.  The 
works,  no  doubt  excellent,  had  not  been  put 
in  motion  for  two  centuries.  It  was  not  to 
tell  the  hour  that  I  bought  this  time-piece  in 
Touraine. 

I  went  down  to  the  porter's  lodge  to  find 
that  his  clock  marked  one  in  the  morning. 
"  In  four  hours  I  can  be  at  Loisy,"  thought  I. 

Five  or  six  cabs  were  still  standing  on  the 
Place  du  Palais  Royal,  awaiting  the  gamblers 
and  clubmen.  "To  Loisy,"  I  said  to  the 
nearest  driver.  "  Where  is  it  ? "  "  Near 
Senlis,  eight  leagues  distant."  "  I  will  take 
you  to  the  posting  station,"  said  the  cabman, 
more  alert  than  I.  ^ 

How  dreary  the  Flanders  road  is  by  night ! 
It  gains  beauty  only  as  it  approaches  the 
belt  of  the  forest.  Two  monotonous  rows  of 
trees,  taking  on  the  semblance  of  distorted 
figures,  rise  ever  before  the  eye ;  in  the  dis- 
tance, patches  of  verdure  and  cultivated  land, 

16 


SYLVIE 

bounded  on  the  left  by  the  blue  hills  of  Mont- 
morency,  Ecouen  and  Luzarches.  Here  is 
Gonesse,  an  ordinary  little  town,  full  of  mem- 
ories of  the  League  and  the  Fronde. 

Beyond  Louvres  is  a  road  lined  with  apple- 
trees,  whose  white  blossoms  I  have  often  seen 
unfolding  in  the  night,  like  stars  of  the  earth  — 
it  is  the  shortest  way  to  the  village.  While 
the  carriage  climbs  the  slope,  let  me  recall  old 
memories  of  the  days  when  I  came  here  so 
often. 


17 


IV. 
A  VOYAGE  TO  CYTHERA. 

SEVERAL  years  had  passed,  and  only  a 
childish  memory  was  left  me  of  that 
meeting  with  Adrienne  in  front  of  the  castle. 
I  was  again  at  Loisy  on  the  annual  feast,  and 
again  I  mingled  with  the  knights  of  the  bow, 
taking  my  place  in  the  same  company  as  of 
old.  The  festival  had  been  arranged  by  young 
people  belonging  to  the  old  families,  who  still 
own  the  solitary  castles,  despoiled  rather  by 
time  than  revolution,  hidden  here  and  there 
in  the  forest.  From  Chantilly,  Compiegne 
and  Senlis,  joyous  companies  hastened  to  join 
the  rustic  train  of  archers.  After  the  long 
parade  through  hamlet  and  village,  after  mass 
in  the  church,  contests  of  skill  and  awarding 
of  prizes,  the  victors  were  invited  to  a  feast 
prepared  upon  an  island  in  the  centre  of  one  of 
the  tiny  lakes,  fed  by  the  Nonette  and  the 
Theve.  Boats,  gay  with  flags,  conveyed  us 
to  this  island,  chosen  on  account  of  an  old 


18 


SYLVIE 

temple  with  pillars,  destined  to  serve  as  a  ban- 
quet hall.  Here,  as  in  Hermenonville,  the 
country  side  is  sown  with  these  frail  structures, 
designed  by  philosophical  millionaires,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  prevailing  taste  of  the  close 
of  the  eighteenth  century.  Probably  this 
temple  was  originally  dedicated  to  Urania. 
Three  pillars  had  fallen,  bearing  with  them  a 
portion  of  the  architrave,  but  the  space  within 
had  been  cleared,  and  garlands  hung  between 
the  columns,  quite  rejuvenated  this  modern 
'ruin,  belonging  rather  to  the  paganism  of 
Boufflers  and  Chaulieu  than  of  Horace.  The 
sail  on  the  lake  was  perhaps  designed  to  re- 
call Watteau's  "Voyage  to  Cythera,"  the 
illusion  being  marred  only  by  our  modern 
dress.  The  immense  bouquet  was  borne  from 
its  wagon  and  placed  in  a  boat,  accompanied 
by  the  usual  escort  of  young  girls  dressed  in 
white,  and  this  graceful  pageant,  the  survival 
of  an  ancient  custom,  was  mirrored  in  the 
still  waters  that  flowed  around  the  island, 
gleaming  in  the  red  sunlight  with  its  haw- 
thorn thickets  and  colonnades. 

All  the  boats  soon  arrived,  and  the  basket 
of  flowers  borne  in  state,  adorned  the  centre 
of  the  table,  around  which  we  took  our  places, 
the  most  fortunate  beside  a  young  girl;  to 
win  this  favour  it  was  enough  to  know  her  rela- 
tives, which  explains  why  I  found  myself  by 


SYLVIE 

Sylvie,  whose  brother  had  already  joined  me 
in  the  march,  and  reproached  me  for  neglect- 
ing to  visit  them.  I  excused  myself  by  the 
plea  that  my  studies  kept  me  in  Paris,  and 
averred  that  I  had  come  with  that  intention. 

"  No,"  said  Sylvie,  "  I  am  sure  he  has  for- 
gotten me.  We  are  only  village  folk,  and  a 
Parisian  is  far  above  us."  I  tried  to  stop  her 
mouth  with  a  kiss,  but  she  still  pouted,  and 
her  brother  had  to  intercede  before  she  would 
offer  me  her  cheek  with  an  indifferent  air.  I 
took  no  pleasure  in  this  salute,  a  favour  ac- 
corded to  plenty  of  others,  for  in  that  patri- 
archal country  where  a  greeting  is  bestowed 
upon  every  passing  stranger,  a  kiss  means  only 
an  exchange  of  courtesies  between  honest 
people. 

To  crown  the  enjoyment  of  the  day,  a  sur- 
prise had  been  contrived,  and,  at  the  close  of 
the  repast,  a  wild  swan,  hitherto  imprisoned 
beneath  the  flowers,  soared  into  the  air,  bear- 
ing aloft  on  his  powerful  wings,  a  tangle  of 
wreaths  and  garlands,  which  were  scattered  in 
every  direction.  While  he  darted  joyously 
toward  the  last  bright  gleams  of  the  sun,  we 
tried  to  seize  the  falling  chaplets,  to  crown  our 
fair  neighbours.  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to 
secure  one  of  the  finest,  and  Sylvie  smilingly 
granted  me  a  kiss  more  tender  than  the  last, 
by  which  I  perceived  that  I  had  now  redeemed 


20 


SYLVIE 

the  memory  of  a  former  occasion.  She  had 
grown  so  beautiful  that  my  present  admiration 
was  without  reserve,  and  I  no  longer  recog- 
nised in  her  the  little  village  maid,  whom  I 
had  slighted  for  one  more  skilled  in  the  graces 
of  the  world.  Sylvie  had  gained  in  every  re- 
spect; her  black  eyes,  seductive  from  child- 
hood, had  become  irresistibly  fascinating,  and 
there  was  something  Athenian  in  her  arching 
brows,  together  with  the  sudden  smile  light- 
ing up  her  quiet,  regular  features.  I  admired 
this  classic  profile  contrasting  with  the  mere 
prettiness  of  her  companions.  Her  taper 
fingers,  round,  white  arms  and  slender  waist 
changed  her  completely,  and  I  could  not  re- 
frain from  telling  her  of  the  transformation, 
hoping  thus  to  hide  my  long  unfaithfulness. 
Everything  favoured  me,  the  delightful  in- 
fluences of  the  feast,  her  brother's  regard,  the 
evening  hour,  and  even  the  spot  chosen  by  a 
tasteful  fancy  to  celebrate  the  stately  rites  of 
ancient  gallantry.  We  escaped  from  the  dance 
as  soon  as  possible,  to  compare  recollections 
of  our  childhood  and  to  gaze,  side  by  side, 
with  dreamy  pleasure,  upon  the  sunset  sky  re- 
flected in  the  calm  waters.  Sylvie's  brother 
had  to  tear  us  from  the  contemplation  of  this 
peaceful  scene  by  the  unwelcome  summons 
that  it  was  time  to  start  for  the  distant  village 
where  she  dwelt. 


21 


V. 
THE  VILLAGE. 

THEY  lived  at  Loisy,  in  the  old  keeper's 
lodge,  whither  I  accompanied  them,  and 
then  turned  back  toward  Montagny,  where  I 
was  staying  with  my  uncle.      Leaving  the 
highway  to  cross  a  little  wood  that   divides 

Loisy  from  Saint  S ,  I  plunged  into  a  deep 

track  skirting  the  forest  of  Hermenonville.  I 
thought  it  would  lead  me  to  the  walls  of  a  con- 
vent, which  I  had  to  follow  for  a  quarter  of  a 
league.  The  moon,  from  time  to  time,  con- 
cealed by  clouds,  shed  a  dim  light  upon  the 
grey  rocks,  and  the  heath  which  lay  thick 
upon  the  ground  as  I  advanced.  Right  and 
left  stretched  a  pathless  forest,  and  before  me 
rose  the  Druid  altars  guarding  the  memory  of 
the  sons  of  Armen,  slain  by  the  Romans. 
From  these  ancient  piles  I  discerned  the  dis- 
tant lakelets  glistening  like  mirrors  in  the 
misty  plain,  but  I  could  not  distinguish  the 
one  where  the  feast  was  held. 


SYLVIE 

The  air  was  so  balmy,  that  I  determined  to 
lie  down  upon  the  heath  and  wait  for  the 
dawn.  When  I  awoke,  I  recognized,  one  by 
one,  the  neighbouring  landmarks.  On  the  left 
stretched  the  long  line  of  the  convent  of  Saint 

S ,  then,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  valley, 

La  Butte  aux  Gens  d'Armes,  with  the  shat- 
tered ruins  of  the  ancient  Carlovingian  palace. 
Close  by,  beyond  the  tree-tops,  the  crumbling 
walls  of  the  lofty  Abbey  of  Thiers,  stood  out 
against  the  horizon.  Further  on,  the  manor 
of  Pontarme,  surrounded  as  in  olden  times, 
by  a  moat,  began  to  reflect  the  first  fires  of 
dawn,  while  on  the  south  appeared  the  tall 
keep  of  La  Tournelle  and  the  four  towers  of 
Bertrand  Fosse,  on  the  slopes  of  Montmeliant. 

The  night  had  passed  pleasantly,  and  I  was 
thinking  only  of  Sylvie,  but  the  sight  of  the 
convent  suggested  the  idea  that  it  might  be 
the  one  where  Adrienne  lived.  The  sound 
of  the  morning  bell  was  still  ringing  in  my 
ears  and  had  probably  awakened  me.  The 
thought  came  to  me,  for  a  moment,  that  by 
climbing  to  the  top  of  the  cliff,  I  might  take  a 
peep  over  the  walls,  but  on  reflection,  I  dis- 
missed it  as  profane.  The  sun  with  its  rising 
beams,  put  to  flight  this  idle  memory,  leaving 
only  the  rosy  features  of  Sylvie.  "  I  will  go 
and  awaken  her,"  I  said  to  myself,  and  again 
I  started  in  the  direction  of  Loisy. 


SYLVIE 

Ah,  here  at  the  end  of  the  forest  track,  is 
the  village,  twenty  cottages  whose  walls  are 
festooned  with  creepers  and  climbing  roses. 
A  group  of  women,  with  red  kerchiefs  on 
their  heads,  are  spinning  in  the  early  light, 
in  front  of  a  farmhouse,  but  Sylvie  is  not 
among  them.  She  is  almost  a  young  lady, 
now  she  makes  dainty  lace,  but  her  family  re- 
main simple  villagers.  I  ran  up  to  her  room 
without  exciting  surprise,  to  find  that  she  had 
been  up  for  a  long  time,  and  was  busily  plying 
her  bobbins,  which  clicked  cheerfully  against 
the  square  green  cushion  on  her  knees.  "  So, 
it  is  you,  lazybones,"  she  said  with  her  divine 
smile;  "  I  am  sure  you  are  just  out  of  bed." 

I  told  her  how  I  had  lost  my  way  in  the 
woods  and  had  passed  the  night  in  the  open 
air,  and  for  a  moment  she  seemed  inclined  to 
pity  me. 

"  If  you  are  not  too  tired,  I  will  take  you 
for  another  ramble.  We  will  go  to  see  my 
grand-aunt  at  Othys." 

Before  I  had  time  to  reply,  she  ran  joyously 
to  smooth  her  hair  before  the  mirror,  and  put 
on  her  rustic  straw  hat,  her  eyes  sparkling 
with  innocent  gaiety. 

Our  way,  at  first,  lay  along  the  banks  of  the 
Theve,  through  meadows  sprinkled  with  daisies 
and  buttercups;  then  we  skirted  the  woods  of 
Saint  Lawrence,  sometimes  crossing  streams 


SYLVIE 

and  thickets  to  shorten  the  road.  Blackbirds 
were  whistling  in  the  trees,  and  tomtits,  startled 
at  our  approach,  flew  joyously  from  the  bushes. 

Now  and  then  we  spied  beneath  our  feet 
the  periwinkles  which  Rousseau  loved,  putting 
forth  their  blue  crowns  amid  long  sprays  of 
twin  leaves,  a  network  of  tendrils  which 
arrested4  the  light  steps  of  my  companion. 
Indifferent  to  the  memory  of  the  philosopher 
of  Geneva,  she  sought  here  and  there  for 
fragrant  strawberries,  while  I  talked  of  the 
New  Heloise,  and  repeated  passages  from  it, 
which  I  knew  by  heart. 

"Is  it  pretty?"  she  asked. 

"It  is  sublime." 

"  Is  it  better  than  Auguste  Lafontaine?  " 

"  It  is  more  tender." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  she,  "  I  must  read  it.  I 
will  tell  my  brother  to  bring  it  to  me  the  next 
time  he  goes  to  Senlis." 

I  went  on  reciting  portions  of  the  Heloise, 
while  Sylvie  picked  strawberries. 


VI. 

OTHYS. 

WHEN  we  had  left  the  forest,  we  found 
great   tufts   of   purple  foxglove,    and 
Sylvie  gathered  an  armful,  saying  it  was  for 
her  aunt  who  loved  to  have  flowers  in  her 
room. 

Only  a  stretch  of  level  country  now  lay 
between  us  and  Othys.  The  village  church- 
spire  pointed  heavenward  against  the  blue 
hills  that  extend  from  Montmeliant  to  Dam- 
martin.  The  Theve  again  rippled  over  the 
stones,  narrowing  towards  its  source,  where  it 
forms  a  tiny  lake  which  slumbers  in  the 
meadows,  fringed  with  gladiolus  and  iris. 
We  soon  reached  the  first  houses  where  Sylvie's 
aunt  lived  in  a  little  cottage  of  rough  stone, 
adorned  with  a  trellis  of  hop -vine  and  Virginia 
creeper.  Her  only  support  came  from  a  few 
acres  of  land  which  the  village  folk  cultivated 
for  her,  now  her  husband  was  dead.  The 
coming  of  her  niece  set  the  house  astir. 


26 


SYLVIE 

"Good  morning,  aunt;  here  are  your  chil- 
dren! "cried  Sylvie;  "and  we  are  very  hun- 
gry." She  kissed  her  aunt  tenderly,  gave  her 
the  flowers,  and  then  turned  to  present  me, 
saying,  "  He  is  my  sweetheart." 

I,  in  turn,  kissed  the  good  aunt,  who  ex- 
claimed, "  He  is  a  fine  lad !  why,  he  has  light 
hair!"  "He  has  very  pretty  hair,"  said 
Sylvie.  "That  does  not  last,"  returned  her 
aunt;  "  but  you  have  time  enough  before  you, 
and  you  are  dark,  so  you  are  well  matched." 

"  You  must  give  him  some  breakfast,"  said 
Sylvie,  and  she  went  peeping  into  cupboards 
and  pantry,  finding  milk,  brown  bread  and 
sugar  which  she  hastily  set  upon  the  table, 
together  with  the  plates  and  dishes  of  crockery 
adorned  with  staring  flowers  and  birds  of 
brilliant  plumage.  A  large  bowl  of  Creil  china, 
filled  with  strawberries  swimming  in  milk, 
formed  the  centrepiece,  and  after  she  had 
raided  the  garden  for  cherries  and  goose- 
berries, she  arranged  two  vases  of  flowers, 
placing  one  at  each  end  of  the  white  cloth. 
Just  then,  her  aunt  made  a  sensible  speech : 
"  All  this  is  only  for  dessert.  Now,  you  must 
let  me  set  to  work."  She  took  down  the 
frying-pan  and  threw  a  fagot  upon  the  hearth. 
"No,  no;  I  shall  not  let  you  touch  it,"  she 
said  decidedly  to  Sylvie,  who  was  trying  to 
help  her.  "  Spoiling  your  pretty  fingers  that 


SYLVIE 

make  finer  lace  than  Chantilly!  You  gave 
me  some,  and  I  know  what  lace  is." 

"  Oh,  yes,  aunt,  and  if  you  have  some  left, 
I  can  use  it  for  a  pattern." 

"Well,  go  look  upstairs;  there  may  be 
some  in  my  chest  of  drawers." 

"  Give  me  the  keys,"  returned  Sylvie. 

"Nonsense,"  cried  her  aunt;  "the  drawers 
are  open."  "  No;  there  is  one  always  locked." 
While  the  good  woman  was  cleaning  the  fry- 
ing-pan, after  having  passed  it  over  the  fire  to 
warm  it,  Sylvie  unfastened  from  her  belt  a 
little  key  of  wrought  steel  and  showed  it  to 
me  in  triumph. 

I  followed  her  swiftly  up  the  wooden  stair- 
case that  led  to  the  room  above.  Oh  youth, 
and  holy  age!  Who  could  sully  by  an  evil 
thought  the  purity  of  first  love  in  this  shrine 
of  hallowed  memories?  The  portrait  of  a 
young  man  of  the  good  old  times,  with  laugh- 
ing black  eyes  and  rosy  lips,  hung  in  an  oval 
gilt  frame  at  the  head  of  the  rustic  bed.  He 
wore  the  uniform  of  a  gamekeeper  of  the 
house  of  Conde;  his  somewhat  martial  bear- 
ing, ruddy,  good-humoured  face,  and  powdered 
hair  drawn  back  from  the  clear  brow,  gave 
the  charm  of  youth  and  simplicity  to  this 
pastel,  destitute,  perhaps,  of  any  artistic  merit. 
Some  obscure  artist,  bidden  to  the  hunting 
parties  of  the  prince,  had  done  his  best  to 


28 


SYLVIE 

portray  the  keeper  and  his  bride  who  appeared 
in  another  medallion,  arch  and  winning,  in 
her  open  bodice  laced  with  ribbons,  teasing 
with  piquant  frown,  a  bird  perched  upon  her 
finger.  It  was,  however,  the  same  good  old 
dame,  at  that  moment  bending  over  the 
hearth-fire  to  cook.  It  reminded  me  of  the 
fairies  in  a  spectacle  who  hide  under  wrinkled 
masks,  their  real  beauty  revealed  in  the  clos- 
ing scene  when  the  Temple  of  Love  appears 
with  its  whirling  sun  darting  magic  fires. 

"Oh,  dear  old  aunt!"  I  exclaimed,  "how 
pretty  you  were !  " 

"  And  I?  "  asked  Sylvie,  who  had  succeeded 
in  opening  the  famous  drawer  which  con- 
tained an  old-fashioned  dress  of  taffeta,  so 
stiff  that  the  heavy  folds  creaked  under  her 
touch.  "  I  will  see  if  it  fits  me,"  she  said;  "  I 
shall  look  like  an  old  fairy !  "  "  Like  the 
fairy  of  the  legends,  ever  young,"  thought  I. 

Sylvie  had  already  unfastened  her  muslin 
gown  and  let  it  fall  to  her  feet.  She  bade  me 
hook  the  rich  robe  which  clung  tightly  to  her 
slender  figure. 

"Oh,  what  ridiculous  sleeves!  "  she  cried; 
and  yet,  the  lace  frills  displayed  to  advantage 
her  bare  arms,  and  her  bust  was  outlined  by 
the  corsage  of  yellow  tulle  and  faded  ribbon 
which  had  concealed  but  little  the  vanished 
charms  of  her  aunt. 


SYLVIE 

"  Come,  make  haste !  "  said  Sylvie.  "  Do 
you  not  know  how  to  hook  a  dress  ?  "  She 
looked  like  the  village  bride  of  Greuze.  "  You 
ought  to  have  some  powder,"  said  I.  "  We 
will  find  some,"  and  she  turned  to  search  the 
drawers  anew.  Oh!  what  treasures,  what 
sweet  odours,  what  gleams  of  light  from  bril- 
liant hues  and  modest  ornaments!  Two 
mother-of-pearl  fans  slightly  broken,  some 
pomade  boxes  covered  with  Chinese  designs, 
an  amber  necklace  and  a  thousand  trifles, 
among  them  two  little  white  slippers  with 
sparkling  buckles  of  Irish  diamonds.  "  Oh ! 
I  will  put  them  on,"  cried  Sylvie,  "if  I  find 
the  embroidered  stockings." 

A  moment  more,  and  we  were  unrolling  a 
pair  of  pink  silk  stockings  with  green  clocks; 
but  the  voice  of  the  old  aunt,  accompanied  by 
the  hiss  of  the  frying-pan,  suddenly  recalled 
us  to  reality.  "  Go  down  quickly,"  said 
Sylvie,  who  refused  to  let  me  help  her  finish 
dressing.  Her  aunt  was  just  turning  into  a 
platter  the  contents  of  the  frying-pan,  a  slice 
of  bacon  and  some  eggs.  Presently,  I  heard 
Sylvie  calling  me  from  the  staircase.  "  Dress 
yourself  as  soon  as  possible,"  and,  completely 
attired  herself,  she  pointed  to  the  wedding 
clothes  of  the  gamekeeper,  spread  out  upon 
the  chest.  In  an  instant  I  was  transformed 
into  a  bridegroom  of  the  last  century.  Sylvie 


SYLVIE 

waited  for  me  on  the  stairs,  and  we  went 
down,  arm  in  arm.  Her  aunt  gave  a  cry 
when  she  saw  us.  "  Oh,  my  children !  "  she 
exclaimed,  beginning  to  weep  and  then  smiling 
through  her  tears.  It  was  the  image  of  her 
own  youth,  a  cruel,  yet  charming  vision.  We 
sat  beside  her,  touched,  almost  saddened,  but 
soon  our  mirth  came  back,  for  after  the  first 
surprise,  the  thoughts  of  the  good  old  dame 
reverted  to  the  stately  festivities  of  her  wed- 
ding day.  She  even  recalled  the  old-fashioned 
songs  chanted  responsively  from  one  end  of 
the  festal  board  to  the  other,  and  the  quaint 
nuptial  hymn  whose  strains  attended  the 
wedded  pair  when  they  withdrew  after  the 
dance.  We  repeated  these  couplets  with 
their  simple  rhymes,  flowery  and  passionate  as 
the  Song  of  Solomon.  We  were  bride  and 
bridegroom  the  space  of  one  fair  summer 
morn. 


VII. 
CHAALIS. 

IT  u  four  o'clock  in  the  morning;  the  road 
winds  through  a  hollow  and  comes  out  on 
high  ground;  the  carriage  passes  Orry,  then 
La  Chapelle.  On  the  left  is  a  road  that  skirts 
the  forest  of  Hallate.  Sylvie's  brother  took 
me  through  there  one  evening  in  his  covered 
cart,  to  attend  some  local  gathering  on  the 
Eve  of  Saint  Bartholomew,  I  believe.  Through 
the  woods,  along  unfrequented  ways,  the  little 
horse  sped  as  if  hastening  to  a  witches'  sab- 
bath. We  struck  the  highway  again  at  Mont- 
I'Ev&que,  and  a  few  moments  later  pulled  up 
at  the  keeper's  lodge  of  the  old  abbey  of 
Chaalis  —  Chaalis,  another  memory ! 

This  ancient  retreat  of  the  emperors  offers 
nothing  worthy  of  admiration,  save  its  ruined 
cloisters  with  their  Byzantine  arcades,  the  last 
of  which  are  still  mirrored  in  the  lake  — 
crumbling  fragments  of  the  abodes  of  piety, 
formerly  attached  to  this  demesne,  known  in 


SYLVIE 

olden  times  as  "Charlemagne's  farms."  In 
this  quiet  spot,  far  from  the  stir  of  highways 
and  cities,  religion  has  retained  distinctive 
traces  of  the  prolonged  sojourn  of  the 
Cardinals  of  the  House  of  Este  during  the 
time  of  the  Medici;  a  shade  of  poetic  gal- 
lantry still  lingers  about  its  ceremonial,  a  per- 
fume of  the  Renaissance  breathing  beneath 
the  delicately  moulded  arches  of  the  chapels 
decorated  by  Italian  artists.  The  faces  of 
saints  and  angels  outlined  in  rose  tints  upon 
a  vaulted  roof  of  pale  blue  produce  an  effect 
of  pagan  allegory,  which  recalls  the  senti- 
mentality of  Petrarch  and  the  weird  mysticism 
of  Francesco  Colonna.  Sylvie's  brother  and  I 
were  intruders  in  the  festivities  of  the  evening. 
A  person  of  noble  birth,  at  that  time  pro- 
prietor of  the  demesne,  had  invited  the  neigh- 
bouring families  to  witness  a  kind  of  allegorical 
spectacle  in  which  some  of  the  inmates  of  the 
convent  close  by  were  to  take  part.  It  was 
not  intended  to  recall  the  tragedies  of  Saint 
Cyr,  but  went  back  to  the  first  lyric  conteits, 
introduced  into  France  by  the  Valois  princes. 
What  I  saw  enacted  resembled  an  ancient 
mystery.  The  costumes,  consisting  of  long 
robes,  presented  no  variety  save  in  colour,  blue, 
hyacinth  or  gold.  The  scene  lay  between 
angels  on  the  ruins  of  the  world.  Each  voice 
chanted  one  of  the  glories  of  the  now  extinct 


33 


SYLVIE 

globe,  and  the  Angel  of  Death  set  forth  the 
causes  of  its  destruction.  A  spirit  rose  from 
the  abyss,  holding  a  flaming  sword,  and  con- 
voked the  others  to  glorify  the  power  of 
Christ,  the  conqueror  of  hell.  This  spirit  was 
Adrienne,  transfigured  by  her  costume  as  she 
was  already  by  her  vocation.  The  nimbus 
of  gilded  cardboard  encircling  her  angelic 
head  seemed  to  us  a  circle  of  light;  her  voice 
had  gained  in  power  and  compass,  and  an  in- 
finite variety  of  Italian  trills  relieved  with  their 
bird-like  warbling  the  stately  severity  of  the 
recitative. 

In  recalling  these  details,  I  come  to  the 
point  of  asking  myself,  "  Are  they  real  or  have 
I  dreamed  them?  "  Sylvie's  brother  was  not 
quite  sober  that  evening.  We  spent  a  few 
minutes  in  the  keeper's  house,  where  I  was 
much  impressed  by  a  cygnet  displayed  above 
the  door,  and  within  there  were  tall  chests  of 
carved  walnut,  a  large  clock  in  its  case  and 
some  archery  prizes,  bows  and  arrows,  above 
a  red  and  green  target.  A  droll-looking 
dwarf  in  a  Chinese  cap,  holding  a  bottle  in 
one  hand  and  a  ring  in  the  other,  seemed  to 
warn  the  marksmen  to  take  good  aim.  I  think 
the  dwarf  was  cut  out  of  sheet-iron.  Did  I  real- 
ly see  Adrienne  as  surely  as  I  marked  these 
details?  I  am,  however,  certain  that  it  was 
the  son  of  the  keeper  who  conducted  us  to  the 


34 


SYLVIE 

hall  where  the  representation  took  place ;  we 
were  seated  near  the  door  behind  a  numerous 
company  who  seemed  deeply  moved.  It  was  the 
feast  of  Saint  Bartholomew  —  a  day  strangely 
linked  with  memories  of  the  Medici,  whose 
arms,  impaled  with  those  of  the  House  of 
Este,  adorned  these  old  walls.  Is  it  an 
obsession,  the  way  these  memories  haunt  me? 
Fortunately  the  carriage  stops  here  on  the 
road  to  Plessis;  I  leave  the  world  of  dreams 
and  find  myself  with  only  a  fifteen-minutes 
walk  to  reach  Loisy  by  forest  paths. 


35 


VIII. 
THE  BALL  AT  LOISY. 

I  ENTERED  the  ball  of  Loisy  at  that  sad  yet 
pleasing  hour  when  the  lights  flicker  and 
grow  dim  at  the  approach  of  dawn.  A  faint 
bluish  tinge  crept  over  the  tops  of  the  lime- 
trees,  sunk  in  shadow  below.  The  rustic  flute 
no  longer  contended  so  gayly  with  the  trills  of 
the  nightingale.-  The  dancers  all  looked  pale, 
and  among  the  dishevelled  groups  I  distin- 
guished with  difficulty  any  familiar  faces. 
Finally,  I  recognized  a  tall  girl,  Sylvie's  friend 
Lise. 

"We  have  not  seen  you  for  a  long  time, 
Parisian,"  said  she. 

"  Yes;   a  long  time." 

"And  you  come  so  late?  " 

"  By  coach." 

"And  you  traveled  slowly !  " 

«*  I  came  to  see  Sylvie;  is  she  still  here?  " 

"  She  will  stay  till  morning;  she  loves  to 
dance." 


SYLVIE 

In  a  moment  I  was  beside  her;  she  looked 
tired,  but  her  black  eyes  sparkled  with  the 
same  Athenian  smile  as  of  old.  A  young 
man  stood  near  her,  but  she  refused  by  a  ges- 
ture to  join  the  next  country-dance,  and  he 
bowed  to  her  and  withdrew. 

It  began  to  grow  light,  and  we  left  the  ball 
hand  in  hand.  The  flowers  hung  lifeless  and 
faded  in  Sylvie's  loosened  tresses,  and  the 
nosegay  at  her  bosom  dropped  its  petals  on 
the  crumpled  lace  made  by  her  skilful  hands. 
I  offered  to  walk  home  with  her;  it  was  broad 
day,  but  the  sky  was  cloudy.  The  Theve 
murmured  on  our  left,  leaving  at  every  curve 
a  little  pool  of  still  water  where  yellow  and 
white  pond-lilies  blossomed,  and  lake  star- 
worts,  like  Easter  daisies,  spread  their  delicate 
broidery.  The  plain  was  covered  with  hay- 
ricks whose  fragrance  seemed  wafted  to  my 
brain,  affecting  me  as  the  fresh  scent  of  the 
woods  and  hawthorn  thickets  had  done  in  the 
past.  This  time  neither  of  us  thought  of 
crossing  the  meadows. 

"Sylvie,"  said  I,  "you  no  longer  love  me." 

She  sighed.  "My  friend,"  she  continued, 
"  you  must  console  yourself,  since  things  do  not 
happen  as  we  wish  in  this  world.  You  once  men- 
tioned the  New  Heloise;  I  read  it,  and  shuddered 
when  I  found  these  words,  at  the  beginning :  'Any 
young  girl  who  reads  this  book  is  lost.'  How- 


37 


SYLVIE 

ever,  I  kept  on,  trusting  in  my  discretion.  Do 
you  remember  the  day  we  put  on  the  wedding 
clothes,  at  my  aunt's  house?  The  engravings 
in  the  book  also  represented  lovers  dressed  in 
olden  costumes,  so  that  to  me  you  were  Saint- 
Preux  and  I  was  Julie.  Ah !  why  did  you  not 
come  back  then?  But  they  said  you  were  in 
Italy.  You  must  have  seen  there  far  prettier 
girls  than  I !  " 

"Not  one,  Sylvie,  with  your  expression  or 
the  pure  lines  of  your  profile.  You  do  not 
know  it,  but  you  are  a  nymph  of  antiquity. 
Besides,  the  woods  here  are  as  beautiful  as 
those  about  Rome.  There  are  granite  masses 
yonder,  not  less  sublime,  and  a  cascade  which 
falls  from  the  rocks  like  that  of  Terni.  I  saw 
nothing  there  to  regret  here." 

"And  in  Paris?  "  she  asked. 

"In  Paris — "  I  shook  my  head,  but  did 
not  answer.  Suddenly  I  remembered  the 
vain  shadow  which  I  had  pursued  so  long. 
"  Sylvie,"  cried  I,  "  let  us  stop  here,  will  you?  " 

I  threw  myself  at  her  feet,  and  with  hoj; 
tears  I  confessed  my  irresolution  and  fickleness; 
I  evoked  the  fatal  spectre  that  haunted  my  days. 

"  Save  me  !  "  I  implored,  "  I  come  back  to 
you  forever." 

She  turned  toward  me  with  emotion,  but  at 
this  moment  our  conversation  was  interrupted 
by  a  loud  burst  of  laughter,  and  Sylvie's  brother 


SYLVIE 

rejoined  us  with  the  boisterous  mirth  always 
attending  a  rustic  festival,  and  which  the  abun- 
dant refreshments  of  the  evening  had  stimu- 
lated beyond  measure.  He  called  to  the 
gallant  of  the  ball,  who  was  concealed  in  a 
thicket,  but  hastened  to  us.  This  youth  was 
little  firmer  on  his  feet  than  his  companion, 
and  appeared  more  embarrassed  by  the  presence 
of  a  Parisian  than  by  Sylvie.  His  candid  look 
and  awkward  deference  prevented  any  dislike 
on  my  part,  on  account  of  his  dancing  so  late 
with  Sylvie  at  the  ball;  I  did  not  consider 
him  a  dangerous  rival. 

"  We  must  go  in,"  said  Sylvie  to  her  brother. 
"We  shall  meet  again  soon,"  she  said,  as  she 
offered  me  her  cheek  to  kiss,  at  which  the  lover 
was  not  offended. 


39 


IX. 

HERMENONVILLE. 

NOT  feeling  inclined  to  sleep,  I  walked  to 
Montagny  to  revisit  my  uncle's  house. 
Sadness  fell  upon  me  at  the  first  glimpse  of  its 
yellow  front  and  green  shutters.  Everything 
looked  as  before,  but  I  was  obliged  to  go  to 
the  farmer's  to  obtain  the  key.  The  shutters 
once  open,  I  surveyed  with  emotion  the  old 
furniture,  polished  from  time  to  time,  to  pre- 
serve its  lustre,  the  tall  cupboard  of  walnut, 
two  Flemish  paintings  said  to  be  the  work  of  an 
ancient  artist,  our  ancestor,  some  large  prints 
after  Boucher,  and  a  whole  series  of  framed 
engravings  representing  scenes  from  "  Emile  " 
and  the  " New  Heloise  "  by  Moreau;  on  the 
table  was  the  dog,  now  stuffed  and  mounted, 
that  I  remembered  alive,  as  the  companion  of 
my  forest  rambles,  perhaps  the  last  "  Carlin," 
for  it  had  belonged  to  that  breed  now  extinct. 
"  As  for  the  parrot,"  said  the  farmer,  "  he  is 
still  alive,  and  I  took  him  home  with  me." 


40 


SYLVIE 

The  garden  offered  a  magnificent  picture  of 
the  growth  of  wild  vegetation,  and  there  in  a 
corner  was  the  plot  I  had  tended  as  a  child. 
A  shudder'came  over  me  as  I  entered  the  study, 
which  still  contained  the  little  library  of  choice 
books,  familiar  friends  of  him  who  was  no 
more,  and  where  upon  his  desk  lay  antique 
relics,  vases  and  Roman  medals  found  in  the 
garden,  —  a  local  collection,  the  source  of  much 
pleasure  to  him. 

"  Let  us  go  to  see  the  parrot,"  I  said  to  the 
farmer.  The  parrot  clamoured  for  his  break- 
fast, as  in  his  best  days,  and  gave  me  a  know- 
ing look  from  his  round  eye  peering  out  from 
the  wrinkled  skin,  like  the  wise  glances  of 
the  old. 

Full  of  sad  thoughts  awakened  by  my  re- 
turn to  this  cherished  spot,  I  felt  that  I  must 
again  see  Sylvie,  the  only  living  tie  which 
bound  me  to  that  region,  and  once  more  I 
took  the  road  to  Loisy.  It  was  the  middle  of 
the  day,  and  I  found  them  all  asleep,  worn  out 
by  the  night  of  merry-making.  It  occurred  to 
me  that  it  might  divert  my  thoughts  to  stroll 
to  Hermenonville,  a  league  distant,  by  the 
forest  road.  It  was  fine  summer  weather,  and 
on  setting  out  I  was  delighted  by  the  fresh- 
ness and  verdure  of  the  path  which  seemed 
like  the  avenue  of  a  park.  The  green  branches 
of  the  great  oaks  were  relieved  by  the  white 


trunks  and  rustling  leaves  of  the  birches.  The 
birds  were  silent,  and  I  heard  no  sound  but 
the  woodpecker  tapping  the  trees  to  find  a 
hollow  for  her  nest.  At  one  time  I  was  in 
danger  of  losing  my  way,  the  characters  being 
wholly  effaced  on  the  guide-posts  which  served 
to  distinguish  the  roads.  Passing  the  Desert 
on  the  left,  I  came  to  the  dancing-ring  where 
I  found  the  benches  of  the  old  men  still  in 
place.  All  the  associations  of  ancient  philos- 
ophy, revived  by  the  former  owner  of  the 
demesne,  crowded  upon  me,  at  the  sight  of 
this  picturesque  realisation  of  "  Anacharsis  " 
and  "  Emile." 

When  I  caught  sight  of  the  waters  of  the 
lake  sparkling  through  the  branches  of  willows 
and  hazels,  I  recognised  a  spot  which  I  had 
often  visited  with  my  uncle.  Here  stands  to 
this  day,  sheltered  by  a  group  of  pines,  the 
Temple  of  Philosophy  which  its  founder  had 
not  the  good  fortune  to  complete.  It  is  built 
in  the  form  of  the  temple  of  the  Tiburtine 
Sibyl,  and  displays  with  pride  the  names  of 
all  the  great  thinkers  from  Montaigne  and 
Descartes  to  Rousseau.  This  unfinished  struc- 
ture is  now  but  a  ruin  around  which  the  ivy 
twines  its  graceful  tendrils,  while  brambles 
force  their  way  between  its  disjointed  steps. 
When  but  a  child,  I  witnessed  the  celebra- 
tions here,  where  young  girls,  dressed  in  white, 


SYLVIE 

came  to  receive  prizes  for  scholarship  and 
good  conduct.  Where  are  the  roses  that 
girdled  the  hillside?  Hidden  by  brier  and 
eglantine,  they  are  fast  losing  all  traces  of 
cultivation.  As  for  the  laurels,  have  they 
been  cut  down,  according  to  the  old  song  of 
the  maidens  who  no  longer  care  to  roam  the 
forest?  No!  these  shrubs  from  sweet  Italy 
have  withered  beneath  our  unfriendly  skies. 
Happily,  the  privet  of  Virgil  still  thrives  as  if 
to  emphasize  the  words  of  the  Master,  in- 
scribed above  the  door,  Rerum  cognoscere  cau- 
sas.  Yes!  like  so  many  others,  this  temple 
crumbles,  and  man,  weary  or  thoughtless, 
passes  it  by,  while  indifferent  nature  reclaims 
the  soil  for  which  art  contended,  but  the  thirst 
for  knowledge  is  eternal,  the  mainspring  of 
all  power  and  activity. 

Here  are  the  poplars  of  the  island  and  the 
empty  tomb  of  Rousseau.  O  Sage !  thou 
gavest  us  the  milk  of  the  strong  and  we  were 
too  weak  to  receive  it !  We  have  forgotten 
thy  lessons  which  our  fathers  knew,  and  we  have 
lost  the  meaning  of  thy  words,  the  last  faint 
echoes  of  ancient  wisdom !  Still,  let  us  not 
despair,  and  like  thee,  in  thy  last  moments, 
let  us  turn  our  eyes  to  the  sun ! 

I  revisited  the  castle,  the  quiet  waters  about 
it,  the  cascade  which  complains  among  the 
rocks,  the  causeway  that  unites  the  two  parts 


43 


SYLVIE 

of  the  village  with  the  four  dove-cotes  that 
mark  the  corners,  and  the  green  that  stretches 
beyond  like  a  prairie,  above  which  rise  wooded 
slopes;  the  tower  of  Gabrielle  is  reflected  from 
afar  in  the  waters  of  an  artificial  lake  studded 
with  ephemeral  blossoms;  the  scum  is  seeth- 
ing, the  insects  hum.  It  is  best  to  escape  the 
noxious  vapours  and  seek  the  rocks  and  sand 
of  the  desert  and  the  waste  lands  where  the 
pink  heath  blooms  beside  green  ferns.  How 
sad  and  lonely  it  all  seems !  In  by-gone  days, 
Sylvie's  enchanting  smile,  her  merry  pranks 
and  glad  cries  enlivened  every  spot !  She  was 
then  a  wild  little  creature  with  bare  feet  and 
sunburned  skin,  in  spite  of  the  straw  hat 
whose  long  strings  floated  loosely  amid  her 
dark  locks.  We  used  to  go  to  the  Swiss  farm 
to  drink  milk,  and  they  said :  "  How  pretty 
your  sweetheart  is,  little  Parisian  !  "  Ah  !  no 
peasant  lad  could  have  danced  with  her  in 
those  days !  She  would  have  none  but  me  for 
her  partner,  at  the  yearly  Feast  of  the  Bow. 


44 


X. 

BIG  CURLY-HEAD. 

I  WENT  back  to  Loisy  and  they  were  all 
awake.  Sylvie  was  dressed  like  a  young 
lady,  almost  in  the  fashion  of  the  city.  She 
led  me  up  to  her  room  with  all  her  old  sim- 
plicity. Her  bright  eyes  smiled  as  charmingly 
as  ever,  but  the  decided  arch  of  her  brows 
made  her  at  times  look  serious.  The  room 
was  simply  decorated,  but  the  furniture  was 
modern :  a  mirror  in  a  gilt  frame  had  replaced 
the  old-fashioned  looking-glass  where  an  idyl- 
lic shepherd  was  depicted  offering  a  nest  to  a 
blue  and  pink  shepherdess;  the  four-post  bed, 
modestly  hung  with  flowered  chintz,  was  suc- 
ceeded by  a  little  walnut  couch  with  net 
curtains;  canaries  occupied  the  cage  at  the 
window  where  once  there  were  linnets.  I  was 
impatient  to  leave  this  room,  where  nothing 
spoke  to  me  of  the  past.  "  Shall  you  make 
lace  to-day  ?  "  I  asked  Sylvie.  "  Oh,  I  do  not 
make  lace  now;  there  is  no  demand  for  it 


45 


here,  and  even  at  Chantilly  the  factory  is 
closed."  "What  is  your  work  then?"  She 
brought  forward,  from  the  corner  of  the  room, 
an  iron  tool  which  resembled  a  long  pair  of 
pincers. 

"What  is  that?" 

"  It  is  called  the  machine  and  is  used  to 
hold  the  leather  in  place  while  the  gloves  are 
sewed." 

"Then  you  are  a  glove-maker,  Sylvie?" 

"Yes,  we  work  here  for  Dammartin;  it 
pays  well  now,  but  I  shall  not  work  to-day; 
let  us  go  wherever  you  like."  I  glanced  to- 
wards Othys,  but  she  shook  her  head,  and  I 
understood  that  the  old  aunt  was  no  more. 
Sylvie  called  a  little  boy  and  bade  him  saddle 
an  ass.  "  I  am  still  tired  from  yesterday,"  she 
said,  "  but  the  ride  will  do  me  good;  let  us  go 
to  Chaaiis." 

We  set  out  through  the  forest,  followed  by 
the  boy  armed  with  a  branch.  Sylvie  soon 
wished  to  stop,  and  I  kissed  her  as  I  led  her 
to  a  seat.  Our  conversation  could  no  longer 
be  very  intimate.  I  had  to  talk  of  my  life  in 
Paris,  my  travels.  ..."  How  can  anyone  go 
so  far?"  she  demanded.  "It  seems  strange 
to  me,  when  I  look  at  you." 

"Oh!  of  course," 

"  Well,  admit  that  you  were  not  so  pretty  in 
the  old  days." 


SYLVIE 

"  I  cannot  tell." 

"  Do  you  remember  when  we  were  children 
and  you  the  tallest?  " 

"And  you  the  wisest?  " 

"Oh!  Sylvie!" 

"  They  put  us  on  an  ass,  one  in  each  pan- 
nier." 

"  And  we  said  thee  and  thou  to  each  other  ? 
Do  you  remember  how  you  taught  me  to 
catch  crawfish  under  the  bridges  over  the 
Nonette  and  the  Theve?  " 

"  Do  you  remember  your  foster-brother  who 
pulled  you  out  of  the  water  one  day?  " 

"Big  Curly-head?  It  was  he  who  told 
me  to  go  in." 

I  made  haste  to  change  the  subject,  because 
this  recollection  had  brought  vividly  to  mind 
the  time  when  I  used  to  go  into  the  country, 
wearing  a  little  English  coat  which  made  the 
peasants  laugh.  Sylvie  was  the  only  one  who 
liked  it,  but  I  did  not  venture  to  remind  her 
of  such  a  juvenile  opinion.  For  some  reason, 
my  mind  turned  to  the  old  aunt's  wedding 
clothes  in  which  we  had  arrayed  ourselves, 
and  I  asked  what  had  become  of  them. 

"Oh!  poor  aunt,"  cried  Sylvie;  "she  lent 
me  her  gown  to  wear  to  the  carnival  at  Dam- 
martin,  two  years  ago,  and  the  next  year  she 
died,  dear,  old  aunt !  "  She  sighed  and  the 
tears  came,  so  I  could  not  inquire  how  it 


47 


SYLVIE 

chanced  that  she  went  to  a  masquerade,  but 
I  perceived  that,  thanks  to  her  skill,  Sylvie  was 
no  longer  a  peasant  girl.  Her  parents  had  not 
risen  above  their  former  station,  and  she  lived 
with  them,  scattering  plenty  around  her  like 
an  industrious  fairy. 


XL 
RETURN. 

THE  outlook  widened  when  we  left  the 
forest  and  we  found  ourselves  near  the 
lake  of  Chaalis.  The  galleries  of  the  cloister, 
the  chapel  with  its  pointed  arches,  the  feudal 
tower  and  the  little  castle  which  had  sheltered 
the  loves  of  Henry  IV.  and  Gabrielle,  were 
bathed  in  the  crimson  glow  of  evening  against 
the  dark  background  of  the  forest. 

"  Like  one  of  Walter  Scott's  landscapes,  is 
it  not?  "  said  Sylvie.  "And  who  has  told  you 
of  Walter  Scott  ?  "  I  inquired.  "  You  must 
have  read  much  in  the  past  three  years !  As 
for  me,  I  try  to  forget  books,  and  what  de- 
lights me,  is  to  revisit  with  you  this  old  abbey 
where,  as  little  children,  we  played  hide  and 
seek  among  the  ruins.  Do  you  remember, 
Sylvie,  how  afraid  you  were  when  the  keeper 
told  us  the  story  of  the  Red  Monks  ?  " 

"  Oh,  do  not  speak  of  it !  " 

"  Well  then,  sing  me  the  song  of  the  fair 


49 


maid  under  the  white  rose-bush,  who  was 
stolen  from  her  father's  garden." 

"Nobody  sings  that  now." 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  have  become  a 
musician?" 

"  Perhaps/' 

"Sylvie,  Sylvie,  I  am  positive  that  you 
sing  airs  from  operas !  " 

"  Why  should  you  complain  ?  " 

"Because  I  loved  the  old  songs  and  you 
have  forgotten  them." 

Sylvie  warbled  a  few  notes  of  a  grand  air 
from  a  modern  opera  .  .  .  She  phrased! 

We  turned  away  from  the  lakeside  and  ap- 
proached the  green  bordered  with  lime-trees 
and  elms,  where  we  had  so  often  danced.  I 
had  the  conceit  to  describe  the  old  Carlovin- 
gian  walls  and  to  decipher  the  armorial  bear- 
ings of  the  House  of  Este. 

"  And  you !  How  much  more  you  have 
read  than  I,  and  how  learned  you  have  be- 
come !  "  said  Sylvie.  I  was  vexed  by  her 
tone  of  reproach,  as  I  had  all  the  way  been 
seeking  a  favourable  opportunity  to  resume  the 
tender  confidences  of  the  morning,  but  what 
could  I  say,  accompanied  by  a  donkey  and 
a  very  wide-awake  lad  who  pressed  nearer  and 
nearer  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  a  Parisian 
talk  ?  Then  I  displayed  my  lack  of  tact,  by 
relating  the  vision  of  Chaalis  which  I  recalled 


5° 


SYLVIE 

so  vividly.  I  led  Sylvie  into  the  very  hall  of 
the  castle  where  I  had  heard  Adrienne  sing. 
"Oh,  let  me  hear  you!"  I  besought  her; 
"let  your  loved  voice  ring  out  beneath  these 
arches  and  put  to  flight  the  spirit  that  tor- 
ments me,  be  it  angel  or  demon !  "  She  re- 
peated the  words  and  sang  after  me : 

"tAngts,  descende^  promptcment 
,Aufond  dupurgatoire  .  .  ."  l 

"It  is  very  sad!"   she   cried. 

"It  is  sublime!  An  air  from  Porpora,  I 
think,  with  words  translated  in  the  present  cen- 
tury." 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  replied. 

We  came  home  through  the  valley,  following 
the  Charlepont  road  which  the  peasants,  without 
regard  to  etymology,  persistently  called  Ch&lle- 
pont.  The  way  was  deserted,  and  Sylvie,  weary 
of  riding,  leaned  upon  my  arm,  while  I  tried 
to  speak  of  what  was  in  my  heart,  but,  I  know 
not  why,  could  find  only  trivial  words  or  stilted 
phrases  from  some  romance  that  Sylvie  might 
have  read.  I  stopped  suddenly  then,  in  true 
classic  style,  and  she  was  occasionally  amazed 
by  these  disjointed  rhapsodies.  Having  reached 

the  walls  of  Saint  S we  had  to  look  well  to 

our  steps,  on  account  of  the  numerous  stream- 
lets winding  through  the  damp  marshes. 

1  Angels  descend  without  delay 
To  dread  abyss  of  purgatory. 


SYLVIE 

"What  has  become  of  the  nun?"  I  asked 
suddenly. 

' '  You  give  me  no  peace  with  your  nun !  Ah, 
well !  it  is  a  sad  story !  "  Not  a  word  more 
would  Sylvie  say. 

Do  women  really  feel  that  certain  words 
come  from  the  lips  rather  than  the  heart?  It 
does  not  seem  probable,  to  see  how  readily 
they  are  deceived,  and  what  an  inexplicable 
choice  they  usually  make  —  there  are  men  who 
play  the  comedy  of  love  so  well !  I  never  could 
accustom  myself  to  it,  although  I  know  some 
women  lend  themselves  wittingly  to  the  decep- 
tion. A  love  that  dates  from  childhood  is, 
however,  sacred,  and  Sylvie,  whom  I  had  seen 
grow  up,  was  like  a  sister  to  me;  I  could  not 
betray  her.  Suddenly,  a  new  thought  came  to 
me.  "At  this  very  hour,  I  might  be  at  the 
theatre.  What  is  Aurelie  (that  was  the  name 
of  the  actress)  playing  to-night?  No  doubt 
the  part  of  the  Princess  in  the  new  play.  How 
touching  she  is  in  the  third  act !  And  in  the 
love  scene  of  the  second  with  that  wrinkled 
actor  who  plays  the  lover !  " 

"Lost  in  thought?"  said  Sylvie;  and  she 
began  to  sing : 

"*A  eDantmartin  Vy  a  trois  bettes  filles : 
L'y  en  a  %'une  plus  belle  que  lejour  .  .  ."l 

1  At  Dammartin  there  are  three  fair  maids, 
And  one  of  them  is  fairer  than  day. 


SYLVIE 

"  Little  tease ! "  I  cried,  "  you  know  you 
remember  the  old  songs." 

"  If  you  would  come  here  oftener,  I  would 
try  to  remember  more  of  them,"  she  said; 
"  but  we  must  think  of  realities;  you  have  your 
affairs  at  Paris,  I  have  my  work  here;  let  us  go 
in  early,  for  I  must  rise  with  the  sun  to-morrow." 


53 


XII. 
FATHER  DODU. 

I  WAS  about  to  reply,  to  fall  at  her  feet  and 
offer  her  my  uncle's  house  which  I  could 
purchase,  as  the  little  estate  had  not  been  ap- 
portioned among  the  numerous  heirs,  but  just 
then  we  reached  Loisy,  where  supper  awaited 
us  and  the  onion-soup  was  diffusing  its  patri- 
archal odour.  Neighbours  had  been  invited  to 
celebrate  the  day  after  the  feast,  and  I  recog- 
nised at  a  glance  Father  Dodu,  an  old  wood- 
cutter who  used  to  amuse  or  frighten  us,  in 
the  evenings  by  his  stories.  Shepherd,  carrier, 
gamekeeper,  fisherman  and  even  poacher,  by 
turns,  Father  Dodu  made  clocks  and  turnspits 
in  his  leisure  moments.  For  a  long  time  he 
acted  as  guide  to  the  English  tourists  at  Her- 
menonville,  and  while  he  recounted  the  last 
moments  of  the  philosopher,  would  lead  them 
to  Rousseau's  favourite  spots  for  meditation. 
He  was  the  little  boy  employed  to  classify  the 
herbs  and  gather  the  hemlock  twigs  from 


54 


which  the  sage  pressed  the  juice  into  his  cup 
of  coffee.  The  landlord  of  the  Golden  Cross 
contested  this  point  and  a  lasting  feud  re- 
sulted. Father  Dodu  had  once  borne  the 
reproach  of  possessing  some  very  innocent 
secrets,  such  as  how  to  cure  cows  by  saying  a 
rhyme  backwards  and  making  the  sign  of  the 
cross  with  the  left  foot,  but  he  had  renounced 
these  superstitions  —  thanks,  he  declared,  to 
his  conversations  with  Jean  Jacques. 

"That  you,  little  Parisian?"  said  Father 
Dodu;  "  have  you  come  to  carry  off  our  pretty 
girls?  " 

"I,  Father  Dodu?" 

"  You  take  them  into  the  woods  when 
the  wolf  is  away !  " 

"  Father  Dodu,  you  are  the  wolf." 

"  I  was  as  long  as  I  could  find  sheep,  but 
at  present  I  meet  only  goats,  and  they  know 
how  to  take  care  of  themselves  !  As  for  you, 
why,  you  are  all  rascals  in  Paris.  Jean  Jac- 
ques was  right  when  he  said,  '  Man  grows  cor- 
rupt in  the  poisonous  air  of  cities.'  " 

"Father  Dodu,  you  know  very  well  that 
men  become  corrupt  everywhere." 

"Father  Dodu  began  to  roar  out  a  drink- 
ing song,  and  it  was  impossible  to  stop  him  at 
a  questionable  couplet  that  everyone  knew  by 
heart.  Sylvie  would  not  sing,  in  spite  of  our 
entreaties,  on  the  plea  that  it  was  no  longer 


55 


customary  to  sing  at  table.  I  had  already 
noticed  the  lover  of  the  ball,  seated  at  her 
left,  and  his  round  face  and  tumbled  hair 
seemed  familiar.  He  rose  and  stood  behind 
me,  saying,  "Have  you  forgotten  me,  Pari- 
sian?" A  good  woman  who  came  back  to 
dessert  after  serving  us,  whispered  in  my  ear : 
"Do  you  not  recognize  your  foster-brother?" 
Without  this  warning,  I  should  have  made 
myself  ridiculous.  "Ah,  it  is  Big  Curly-head!  " 
I  cried;  "the  very  same  who  pulled  me  out 
of  the  water."  Sylvie  burst  out  laughing  at 
the  recollection. 

"  Without  considering/'  said  the  youth  em- 
bracing me,  "  that  you  had  a  fine  silver  watch 
and  on  the  way  home  you  were  more  con- 
cerned about  it  than  yourself,  because  it  had 
stopped.  You  said,  '  the  creature  is  drowned, 
does  not  go  tick-tack;  what  will  Uncle 
say  ? ' "  "A  watch  is  a  creature,"  said 
Father  Dodu;  "that  is  what  they  tell  chil- 
dren in  Paris ! " 

Sylvie  was  sleepy,  and  I  fancied  there  was 
no  hope  for  me.  She  went  upstairs,  and  as  I 
kissed  her,  said :  "  Come  again  to-morrow." 
Father  Dodu  remained  at  table  with  Sylvain 
and  my  foster-brother,  and  we  talked  a  long 
time  over  a  bottle  of  Louvres  ratafia. 

"  All  men  are  equal,"  said  Father  Dodu  be- 
tween glasses;  "I  drink  with  a  pastry-cook 
as  readily  as  with  a  prince." 

56 


"  Where  is  the  pastry-cook?  "  I  asked. 

"By  your  side!  There  you  see  a  young 
man  who  is  ambitious  to  get  on  in  life." 

My  foster-brother  appeared  embarrassed 
and  I  understood  the  situation.  Fate  had  re- 
served for  me  a  foster-brother  in  the  very 
country  made  famous  by  Rousseau,  who  op- 
posed putting  children  out  to  nurse !  I 
learned  from  Father  Dodu  that  there  was 
much  talk  of  a  marriage  between  Sylvie  and 
Big  Curly-head,  who  wished  to  open  a  pastry- 
shop  at  Dammartin.  I  asked  no  more.  Next 
morning  the  coach  from  Nanteuil-le-Haudouin 
took  me  back  to  Paris. 


57 


XIII. 

AUR£LIE. 

r-r\o  Paris,  a  journey  of  five  hours !  I  was 
JL  impatient  for  evening,  and  eight  o'clock 
found  me  in  my  accustomed  seat.  Aurelie  in- 
fused her  own  spirit  and  grace  into  the  lines 
of  the  play,  the  work  of  a  contemporary 
author  evidently  inspired  by  Schiller.  In  the 
garden  scene  she  was  sublime.  During  the 
fourth  act,  when  she  did  not  appear,  I  went 
out  to  purchase  a  bouquet  of  Madame  Prevost, 
slipping  into  it  a  tender  effusion  signed  An 
Unknown.  "There,"  thought  I,  "is  some- 
thing definite  for  the  future,"  but  on  the  mor- 
row I  was  on  my  way  to  Germany. 

Why  did  I  go  there?  In  the  hope  of  com- 
posing my  disordered  fancy.  If  I  were  to 
write  a  book,  I  could  never  gain  credence  for 
the  story  of  a  heart  torn  by  these  two  conflict- 
ing loves.  I  had  lost  Sylvie  through  my  own 
fault,  but  to  see  her  for  a  day,  sufficed  to 
restore  my  soul.  A  glance  from  her  had  ar- 


SYLVIE 

rested  me  on  the  verge  of  the  abyss,  and 
henceforth  I  enshrined  her  as  a  smiling  god- 
dess in  the  Temple  of  Wisdom.  I  felt  more 
than  ever  reluctant  to  present  myself  before 
Aurelie  among  the  throng  of  vulgar  suitors 
who  shone  in  the  light  of  her  favour  for  an  in- 
stant only  to  fall  blinded. 

"  Some  day,"  said  I,  "  we  shall  see  whether 
this  woman  has  a  heart." 

One  morning  I  learned  from  a  newspaper 
that  Aurelie  was  ill,  and  I  wrote  to  her  from 
the  mountains  of  Salzburg,  a  letter  so  filled  with 
German  mysticism  that  I  could  hardly  hope  for 
a  reply,  indeed  I  expected  none.  I  left  it  to 
chance  or  ...  the  unknoivn. 

Months  passed,  and  in  the  leisure  intervals 
of  travel  I  undertook  to  embody  in  poetic 
action  the  life-long  devotion  of  the  painter 
Colonna  to  the  fair  Laura  who  was  constrained 
by  her  relatives  to  take  the  veil.  Something 
in  the  subject  lent  itself  to  my  habitual  train  of 
thought,  and  as  soon  as  the  last  verse  of  the 
drama  was  written,  I  hastened  back  to  France. 

Can  I  avoid  repeating  in  my  own  history, 
that  of  many  others  ?  I  passed  through  all  the 
ordeals  of  the  theatre.  I  "  ate  the  drum  and 
drank  the  cymbal,"  according  to  the  apparently 
meaningless  phrase  of  the  initiates  at  Eleusis, 
which  probably  signifies  that  upon  occasion 
we  must  stand  ready  to  pass  the  bounds  of 


59 


SYLVIE 

reason  and  absurdity;  for  me  it  meant  to  win 
and  possess  my  ideal. 

Aurelie  accepted  the  leading  part  in  the  play 
which  I  brought  back  from  Germany.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  day  she  allowed  me  to  read  it 
to  her.  The  love  scenes  had  been  arranged 
expressly  for  her,  and  I  am  positive  that  I  ren- 
dered them  with  feeling.  In  the  conversation 
that  followed  I  revealed  myself  as  the  "  Un- 
known "  of  the  two  letters.  She  said :  "  You 
are  mad,  but  come  again;  I  have  never  found 
anyone  who  knew  how  to  love  me." 

Oh,  woman!  you  seek  for  love  .  .  .  but 
what  of  me? 

In  the  days  which  followed  I  wrote  probably 
the  most  eloquent  and  touching  letters  that  she 
ever  received.  Her  answers  were  full  of  good 
sense.  Once  she  was  moved,  sent  for  me  and 
confessed  that  it  was  hard  for  her  to  break  an 
attachment  of  long  standing.  "  If  you  love  me 
for  myself  alone,  then  you  will  understand  that 
I  can  belong  to  but  one." 

Two  months  later,  I  received  an  effusive 
letter  which  brought  me  to  her  feet  —  in  the 
meantime,  someone  volunteered  an  important 
piece  of  information.  The  handsome  young 
man  whom  I  had  met  one  night  at  the  club 
had  just  enlisted  in  the  Turkish  cavalry. 

Races  were  held  at  Chantilly  the  next  season, 
and  the  theatre  troupe  to  which  Aurelie  be- 


longed  gave  a  performance.  Once  in  the 
country,  the  company  was  for  three  days  sub- 
ject to  the  orders  of  the  director.  I  had  made 
friends  with  this  worthy  man,  formerly  the 
Dorante  of  the  comedies  of  Marivaux  and  for  a 
long  time  successful  in  lovers'  parts.  His  latest 
triumph  was  achieved  in  the  play  imitated  from 
Schiller,  when  my  opera-glass  had  discovered 
all  his  wrinkles.  He  had  fire,  however,  and 
being  thin,  produced  a  good  effect  in  the 
provinces.  I  accompanied  the  troupe  in  the 
quality  of  poet,  and  persuaded  the  manager  to 
give  performances  at  Senlis  and  Dammartin. 
He  inclined  to  Compiegne  at  first,  but  Aurelie 
was  of  my  opinion.  Next  day,  while  arrange- 
ments with  the  local  authorities  were  in  pro- 
gress, I  ordered  horses  and  we  set  out  on 
the  road  to  Commelle  to  breakfast  at  the  castle 
of  Queen  Blanche.  Aurelie,  on  horseback, 
with  her  blonde  hair  floating  in  the  wind,  rode 
through  the  forest  like  some  queen  of  olden 
times,  and  the  peasants  were  dazzled  by  her 

appearance.     Madame  de  F was  the  only 

woman  they  had  ever  seen  so  imposing  and  so 
graceful.  After  breakfast  we  rode  down  to  the 
villages  like  Swiss  hamlets  where  the  waters  of 
the  Nonette  turn  the  busy  saw-mills.  These 
scenes,  which  my  remembrance  cherished,  inter- 
ested Aurelie,  but  did  not  move  her  to  delay. 
I  had  planned  to  conduct  her  to  the  castle 


61 


SYLVIE 

near  Orry,  where  I  had  first  seen  Adrienne  on 
the  green.  She  manifested  no  emotion.  Then 
I  told  her  all;  I  revealed  the  hidden  spring  of 
that  love  which  haunted  my  dreams  by  night 
and  was  realized  in  her.  She  listened  with 
attention  and  said :  "  You  do  not  love  me ! 
You  expect  me  to  say  « the  actress  and  the  nun 
are  the  same';  you  are  merely  arranging  a 
drama  and  the  issue  of  the  plot  is  lacking.  Go ! 
I  no  longer  believe  in  you." 

Her  words  were  an  illumination.  The  un- 
natural enthusiasm  which  had  possessed  me 
for  so  long,  my  dreams,  my  tears,  my  despair 
and  my  tenderness,  —  could  they  mean  aught 
but  love?  What  then  is  love? 

Aurelie  played  that  night  at  Senlis,  and  I 
thought  she  displayed  a  weakness  for  the 
director,  the  wrinkled  "  young  lover  "  of  the 
stage.  His  character  was  exemplary,  and  he 
had  already  shown  her  much  kindness. 

One  day,  Aurelie  said  to  me:  "There  is 
the  man  who  loves  me !  " 


62 


XIV. 
THE  LAST   LEAF. 

SUCH  are  the  fancies  that  charm  and  beguile 
us  in  the  morning  of  life  !  I  have  tried 
to  set  them  down  here,  in  a  disconnected 
fashion,  but  many  hearts  will  understand  me. 
One  by  one  our  illusions  fall  like  husks,  and 
the  kernel  thus  laid  bare  is  experience.  Its 
taste  is  bitter,  but  it  yields  an  acrid  flavour  that 
invigorates, — to  use  an  old-fashioned  simile. 
Rousseau  says  that  the  aspect  of  nature  is  a 
universal  consolation.  Sometimes  I  seek  again 
my  groves  of  Clarens  lost  in  the  fog  to  the 
north  of  Paris,  but  now,  all  is  changed !  Her- 
menonville,  the  spot  where  the  ancient  idyl 
blossomed  again,  transplanted  by  Gessner,  thy 
star  has  set,  the  star  that  glowed  for  me  with 
twofold  lustre.  Blue  and  rose  by  turns,  like 
the  changeful  Aldebaran,  it  was  formed  by 
Adrienne  and  Sylvie,  the  two  halves  of  my 
love.  One  was  the  sublime  ideal,  the  other, 
the  sweet  reality.  What  are  thy  groves  and 


lakes  and  thy  desert  to  me  now?  Othys, 
Montagny,  Loiseaux,  poor  neighbouring  ham- 
lets, and  Cha&lis  now  to  be  restored,  you 
guard  for  me  no  treasures  of  the  past.  Oc- 
casionally, I  feel  a  desire  to  return  to  those 
scenes  of  lonely  musing,  where  I  sadly  mark 
the  fleeting  traces  of  a  period  when  affectation 
invaded  nature;  sometimes  I  smile  as  I  read 
upon  the  granite  rocks  certain  lines  from 
Boucher,  which  I  once  thought  sublime,  or 
virtuous  maxims  inscribed  above  a  fountain 
or  a  grotto  dedicated  to  Pan.  The  swans  dis- 
dain the  stagnant  waters  of  the  little  lakes 
excavated  at  such  an  expense.  The  time  is 
no  more  when  the  hunt  of  Conde  swept  by 
with  its  proud  riders,  and  the  forest-echoes 
rang  with  answering  horns !  There  is  to-day 
no  direct  route  to  Hermenonville,  and  some- 
times I  go  by  Creil  and  Senlis,  sometimes  by 
Dammartin. 

It  is  impossible  to  reach  Dammartin  before 
night,  so  I  lodge  at  the  Image  of  Saint  John. 
They  usually  give  me  a  neat  room  hung  with 
old  tapestry,  with  a  glass  between  the  win- 
dows. This  room  shows  a  return  to  the 
fashion  for  bric-a-brac  which  I  renounced 
long  ago.  I  sleep  comfortably  under  the 
eider-down  covering  used  there.  In  the 
morning,  when  I  throw  open  the  casement 
wreathed  with  vines  and  roses,  I  gaze  with 


64 


SYLVIE 

rapture  upon  a  wide  green  landscape  stretch- 
ing away  to  the  horizon,  where  a  line  of  pop- 
lars stand  like  sentinels.  Here  and  there  the 
villages  nestle  guarded  by  their  protecting 
church-spires.  First  Othys,  then  Eve  and 
Ver;  Hermenonville  would  be  visible  beyond 
the  wood,  if  it  had  a  belfry,  but  in  that  philo- 
sophic spot  the  church  has  been  neglected. 
Having  filled  my  lungs  with  the  pure  air  of 
these  uplands,  I  go  down  stairs  in  good  humour 
and  start  for  the  pastry-cook's.  "  Helloa,  big 
Curly-head ! "  "  Helloa,  little  Parisian !  "  We 
greet  each  other  with  sly  punches  in  the  ribs 
as  we  did  in  childhood,  then  I  climb  a  certain 
stair  where  two  children  welcome  my  coming. 
Sylvie's  Athenian  smile  lights  up  her  classic 
features,  and  I  say  to  myself :  "  Here,  perhaps, 
is  the  happiness  I  have  missed,  and  yet  ..." 

Sometimes  I  call  her  Lotty,  and  she  sees  in 
me  some  resemblance  to  Werther  without  the 
pistols,  which  are  out  of  fashion  now.  While 
Big  Curly-head  is  busy  with  the  breakfast,  we 
take  the  children  for  a  walk  through  the 
avenues  of  limes  that  border  the  ruins  of  the 
old  brick  towers  of  the  castle.  While  the 
little  ones  practise  with  their  bows  and  arrows, 
we  read  some  poem  or  a  few  pages  from  one 
of  those  old  books  all  too  short,  and  long  for- 
gotten by  the  world. 

I  forgot  to  say  that  when  Aurelie's  troupe 


SYLVIE 

gave  a  performance  at  Dammartin,  I  took 
Sylvie  to  the  play  and  asked  her  if  she  did  not 
think  the  actress  resembled  someone  she  knew. 

"Whom,  pray?" 

"  Do  you  remember  Adrienne  ?  " 

She  laughed  merrily,  in  reply.  "  What  an 
idea!" 

Then,  as  if  in  self-reproach,  she  added  with 
a  sigh :  "  Poor  Adrienne !  she  died  at  the 
convent  of  Saint  S about  1832." 


APPENDIX. 


'EL  DESDICHADO: 

GERARD  DE  NERK4L. 

I   AM  that  dark,  that  disinherited, 

*    That  all  dishonoured  Prince  of  Aquitaine, 
The  Star  upon  my  scutcheon  Jong  hath  fled; 

A  black  sun  on  my  lute  doth  yet  remain  ! 

Oh,  thou  that  didst  console  me  not  in  vain, 
Within  the  tomb,  among  the  midnight  dead, 
Show  me  Italian  seas,  and  blossoms  wed, 

The  rose,  the  vine-leaf,  and  the  golden  grain. 

Say,  am  I  Love  or  Ph&bus  ?  have  I  been 
Or  Lusignan  or  Biron  ?    By  a  Queen 

Caressed  within  the  Mermaid"1  s  haunt  I  lay, 
And  twice  I  crossed  the  unpermitted  stream, 
And  touched  on  Orpheus'  lute  as  in  a  dream, 

Sighs  of  a  Saint,  and  laughter  of  a  Fay  ! 

(ANDREW  LANG.) 


TO  ALEXANDER  DUMAS. 

WHEN  it  was  currently  reported  that  GeVard  de  Ner- 
val  had  become  insane,  Alexander  Dumas,  who  was 
then  publishing  that  amusing  journal  Le  Mousquetaire, 
endeavored  to  explain  and  interpret  the  poet's  peculiar 
form  of  mental  alienation.  Gdrard,  who  presently 
came  to  himself,  as  was  his  wont,  took  note  of  the 
study,  and  in  return  dedicated  to  Dumas  his  Fittes  du 
Feu,  thus  acknowledging  the  obligation  conferred  by 
the  great  novelist  in  inditing  the  epitaph  of  the  poet's 
"  lost  wits," 

This  dedication,  now  done  into  English  for  the  first 
time,  is  interesting  and  important,  as  embodying  the 
author's  own  interpretation  of  his  singular  mental  con- 
stitution. He  confesses  that  he  is  unable  to  compose 
without  incarnating  himself  in  his  creations  so  thor- 
oughly as  to  lose  his  own  identity.  In  illustration,  he 
throws  into  the  text  the  tragic  history  of  a  mythical 
hero.  It  is  easy  to  trace  in  this  story  of  a  nameless 
prince,  unable  to  prove  his  lofty  origin,  involved  in  a 
network  of  misfortunes  through  the  crafty  machinations 
of  the  arch  plotter  La  Rancune  (malice)  and  abandoned 
by  his  mistress,  the  beautiful  guiding  Star  of  his  destiny, 
allegorical  allusions  to  the  poet,  the  heir  of  genius  and 


APPENDIX 

of  glory,  unable  to  prove  or  justify  his  noble  birthright, 
his  highest  impulses  misunderstood  and  trampled  upon 
by  a  heartless  and  vulgar  world. 

LUCIE  PAGE. 


T  DEDICATE  this  book  to  you,  my  dear  Mas- 
•^  ter,  as  I  dedicated  Lorely  to  Jules  Janin. 
I  was  indebted  to  him  for  the  same  service  that 
I  owe  to  you.  A  few  years  ago,  it  was  re- 
ported that  I  was  dead,  and  he  wrote  my  biog- 
raphy. A  few  days  ago,  I  was  thought  to  have 
lost  my  reason,  and  you  honoured  me  by  de- 
voting some  of  your  most  graceful  lines  to  the 
epitaph  of  my  intelligence.  Such  an  inheri- 
tance of  glory  has  fallen  to  me  before  my  time. 
How  shall  I  venture,  yet  living,  to  deck  my 
forehead  with  these  shining  crowns?  It  be- 
comes me  to  assume  an  air  of  modesty  and  beg 
the  public  to  accept,  with  suitable  deductions, 
the  eulogy  bestowed  upon  my  ashes,  or  rather 
upon  the  lost  wits  contained  in  the  bottle 
which,  like  Astolpho,  I  have  been  to  seek  in 
the  moon,  and  which,  I  trust,  I  have  now  re- 
stored to  their  normal  place  in  the  seat  of 
thought. 

Being,  therefore,  no  longer  mounted  upon 
the  hippogriff,  and  having,  in  the  popular  con- 
ception, recovered  what  is  vulgarly  termed 
reason,  —  let  us  proceed  to  the  exercise  of 
that  faculty. 


70 


APPENDIX 

Here  is  a  fragment  of  what  you  wrote  con- 
cerning me,  the  tenth  of  last  December : 

"As  you  can  readily  perceive,  he  possesses  a 
subtle  and  highly  cultivated  intellect,  in  which 
is  manifested  from  time  to  time  a  singular  phe- 
nomenon which,  fortunately,  let  us  hope,  has 
no  serious  import  to  himself  or  his  friends.  At 
intervals,  when  preoccupied  by  literary  toil,  im- 
agination goaded  to  frenzy  masters  reason  and 
drives  it  from  the  brain;  then,  like  an  opium- 
smoker  of  Cairo,  or  a  hashish-eater  of  Algiers, 
Gerard  finds  again  the  talismans  that  evoke 
spirits.  Now  he  is  King  Solomon  waiting  for 
the  Queen  of  Sheba;  then  by  turns  Sultan  of 
the  Crimea,  Count  of  Abyssinia,  Duke  of  Egypt, 
or  Baron  of  Smyrna.  Next  day,  he  declares  him- 
self mad  and  relates  the  whole  series  of  events 
from  which  his  madness  sprung,  with  such  a 
joyous  abandon,  such  an  ingenious  fertility  of 
resource  that  one  is  ready  to  part  with  his  wits 
in  order  to  follow  such  a  fascinating  guide 
through  the  desert  of  dreams  and  hallucinations, 
sprinkled  with  oases  fresher  and  greener  than 
any  which  dot  the  route  from  Alexandria  to 
Ammon.  Finally,  melancholy  becomes  his 
muse  of  inspiration,  and  now,  restrain  your  tears 
if  you  can,  for  never  did  Werther,  Rene,  or 
Antony  pour  forth  sobs  and  complaints  more 
tender  and  pathetic  1 " 


71 


APPENDIX 

I  shall  now  endeavour  to  explain  to  you,  my 
dear  Dumas,  the  phenomenon  which  you  men- 
tion above.  There  are,  as  you  well  know, 
certain  writers  who  cannot  invent  without  iden- 
tifying themselves  with  the  creations  of  their  im- 
agination. You  remember  with  what  conviction 
our  old  friend  Nodier  related  how  he  had  the 
misfortune  to  be  guillotined  in  the  Revolution. 
The  narrative  was  so  convincing  that  we  won- 
dered instinctively  how  he  had  contrived  to 
fasten  his  head  on  again. 

Understand,  therefore,  that  the  ardour  of 
production  may  conduce  to  a  like  result,  that 
the  author  incarnates  himself,  as  it  were,  in  the 
hero  of  his  imagination  so  completely  that  he 
loses  himself  and  burns  with  the  imaginary 
flames  of  this  hero's  love  and  ambition !  This 
was  precisely  the  effect  produced  upon  me  in 
narrating  the  history  of  a  personage  who 
figured  under  the  title  of  Brisacier,  about  the 
time  of  Louis  XV,  I  believe.  Where  did  I 
read  the  fatal  biography  of  this  adventurer?  I 
have  found  again  that  of  the  Abbe  of  Bucquoy, 
but  I  cannot  recall  the  slightest  historical  proof 
of  the  existence  of  this  illustrious  unknown. 
What  for  you,  dear  Master,  would  have  been 
but  a  pastime,  —  you,  who  have  with  clever 
artifices  so  bewildered  our  minds  concerning 
the  old  chronicles,  that  posterity  will  never  be 
able  to  disentangle  truth  from  fiction,  and  is 


APPENDIX 

certain  to  credit  your  invention  with  all  the 
characters  from  history  that  figure  in  your 
romances  —  this  became  for  me  a  veritable 
obsession.  To  invent,  is  in  reality  only  to 
recollect,  says  a  certain  moralist.  Finding  no 
proofs  of  the  material  existence  of  my  hero,  I 
suddenly  came  to  believe  in  the  transmigration 
of  souls,  not  less  firmly  than  Pythagoras  or 
Peter  Leroux.  Even  the  eighteenth  century, 
in  which  I  believed  myself  to  have  lived,  was 
full  of  these  illusions.  Do  you  remember  that 
courtier  who  recalled  distinctly  that  he  was 
once  a  sofa?  Whereupon  Schahabaham  ex- 
claimed with  enthusiasm,  "What,  you  were 
once  a  sofa !  why,  that  is  delightful !  —  Tell 
me,  were  you  embroidered?" 

As  for  me,  I  was  embroidered  at  every  seam. 
From  the  moment  when  I  first  grasped  the 
continuity  of  all  my  previous  existences,  I 
figured  as  readily  in  one  character  as  another, 
prince,  king,  mage,  genie,  or  even  god;  could 
1  unite  my  memories  in  one  masterpiece,  it 
would  represent  the  Dream  of  Scipio,  the 
Vision  of  Tasso  or  the  Divine  Comedy  of 
Dante.  Renouncing,  henceforth,  all  preten- 
sions to  inspiration  or  illumination,  I  can  offer 
only  what  you  so  justly  call  impracticable 
theories,  an  impossible  book,  whose  first  chap- 
ter, subjoined  below,  seems  but  to  furnish  the 
context 'of  the  Comic  Romance  of  Scarron.  .  .  . 
Read  and  judge  for  yourself : 
73 


APPENDIX 

A  TRAGIC  ROMANCE. 
Here  I  still  languish  in  my  prison,  Madame, 
still  rash  and  culpable  and  alas !  still  trusting  in 
that  beautiful  star  of  comedy,  which,  for  one 
brief  instant,  deigned  to  call  me  her  destiny 
The  Star  and  its  Destiny!  what  a  charming 
couple  to  figure  in  a  romance  like  the  poet 
Scarron's !  And  yet,  how  difficult  we  should 
find  it  to  sustain  the  two  characters  now !  The 
heavy  vehicles  which  used  to  jolt  us  over  the 
uneven  pavements  of  Mons,  have  been  super- 
seded by  coach,  post-chaise  and  other  new  in- 
ventions. Where  shall  we  find  to-day  those  wild 
adventures,  that  gay,  Bohemian  life  that  united 
us,  poets  and  actresses,  as  comrades  and  equals? 
You  have  betrayed  and  deserted  us,  and  left  us 
to  perish  in  some  miserable  inn,  while  you 
share  the  fortunes  of  some  rich  and  gallant 
lord.  Here,  in  sooth,  am  I,  but  lately  the  bril- 
liant actor,  the  prince  in  disguise,  the  disinher- 
ited son  and  the  banished  lover,  no  better 
treated  than  some  provincial  rhymer!  My 
countenance  disfigured  by  an  enormous  plas- 
ter only  adds  to  my  discomfiture.  The  landlord, 
tempted  by  the  plausible  story  poured  into  his 
ears  by  La  Rancune,  has  consented  to  hold  as 
security  for  the  settlement  of  his  account  the 
person  of  the  son  of  the  great  Khan  of  the 
Crimea,  sent  here  to  finish  his  education  and  well 
known  throughout  Christian  Europe  as  Brisa- 


74 


APPENDIX 

cier.  Had  the  old  intriguer,  La  Rancune, 
left  me  a  few  gold  pieces,  or  even  a  paltry 
watch  set  with  false  brilliants,  I  could,  doubt- 
less, have  won  the  respect  of  my  accusers  and 
extricated  myself  from  this  unfortunate  situa- 
tion. But  in  addition,  you  have  left  my  ward- 
robe furnished  only  with  a  puce-coloured 
smock-coat,  a  blue  and  black  striped  waist- 
coat and  small  clothes  in  a  doubtful  state  of 
repair.  The  suspicions  of  the  landlord  were 
awakened  upon  lifting  my  valise  after  your  de- 
parture, and  he  insulted  me  to  my  face  "by 
calling  me  an  imposter,  and  a  contraband 
prince.  I  sprang  up  to  stab  him,  but  La 
Rancune  had  removed  my  sword,  fearing  lest 
despair  on  account  of  the  ungrateful  mistress 
who  has  abandoned  me,  might  lead  me  to 
thrust  it  through  my  heart.  This  precau- 
tion was  needless,  O  La  Rancune  !  An  actor 
never  stabs  himself  with  the  sword  that  he 
has  worn  in  many  a  comedy;  nor  does  he  who 
is  himself  the  hero  of  tragedy  ape  the  hero 
of  a  romance.  I  call  all  my  comrades  to  wit- 
ness that  such  a  death  could  never  be  repre- 
sented with  dignity  upon  the  stage.  I  know 
that  one  may  plant  his  sword  in  the  earth  and 
fall  upon  it  with  outstretched  arms  ;  but  in 
spite  of  the  cold  weather,  I  have  here  a  bare 
floor  with  no  carpet.  The  window,  too,  is 
wide  enough  and  at  sufficient  height  to  aid  in 


75 


APPENDIX 

putting  an  end  to  all  despair.  But  .  .  .  but  as 
I  have  told  you  a  thousand  times,  I  am  an  actor 
with  a  conscience. 

Do  you  remember  how  I  used  to  play  Achil- 
les, when  in  passing  through  some  third  or 
fourth-rate  town,  the  whim  would  seize  us  to 
re-establish  the  neglected  cult  of  the  old  French 
tragedians?  Was  I  not  noble  and  puissant  in 
the  gilded  helmet  with  streaming  locks  of 
purple  blackness,  the  glittering  armor  and 
azure  cloak?  What  a  spectacle  to  see  a  father 
as  weak  and  cowardly  as  Agamemnon  contend 
with  the  priest  Calchas  for  the  honour  of  immo- 
lating such  a  victim  as  poor,  weeping  Iphigenia ! 
I  rushed  like  a  thunderbolt  into  the  midst  of  the 
forced  and  cruel  action;  I  restored  hope  to  the 
mothers  and  reawakened  courage  in  the 
daughters,  always  sacrificed  from  a  sense  of 
duty,  to  stay  the  anger  of  a  god,  allay  the 
vengeance  of  a  nation,  or  advance  the  interests 
of  a  family.  For  it  is  easy  to  recognize  here 
the  eternal  type  of  human  marriage.  The 
father  will  forevermore  deliver  up  his  daughter 
through  ambition,  and  the  mother  will  sell  her 
through  cupidity;  but  the  lover  is  not  always 
the  worthy  Achilles,  so  gallant  and  terrible, 
albeit  a  trifle  too  rhetorical  for  a  man  of  war ! 

As  for  me,  I  often  rebelled  against  declaim- 
ing long  tirades  in  defense  of  a  course  so  evi- 
dently just,  in  the  face  of  an  audience  so  easily 


APPENDIX 

convinced  that  I  was  in  the  right.  I  was 
tempted  to  stab  the  whole  idiotic  court  of  the 
king  of  kings,  with  its  sleepy  rows  of  super- 
numeraries, and  so  put  an  end  to  the  piece. 
The  public  would  have  been  delighted,  but  on 
second  thoughts  would  have  found  the  play 
too  short,  considering  that  time  sufficient  to 
witness  the  sufferings  of  a  princess,  a  lover 
and  a  queen,  was  its  rightful  due  ;  a  period 
long  enough  to  see  them  weep,  rage  and  pour 
forth  a  torrent  of  poetic  invective  against  the 
established  authority  of  priest  and  king.  That 
was  well  worth  five  acts  and  two  hours  of  close 
attention,  and  the  audience  would  not  content 
itself  with  less.  It  desires  the  humiliation  of 
this  proud  race  seated  upon  the  throne  of 
Greece,  before  whom  Achilles  himself  dares  to 
thunder  but  in  words  ;  it  must  sound  all  the 
depths  of  misery  hidden  beneath  this  royal 
purple  whose  majesty  seems  so  irresistible. 
The  tears  which  fall  from  the  most  glorious 
eyes  in  the  world  upon  the  swelling  bosom  of 
Iphigenia,  excite  the  crowd  no  less  than  her 
beauty,  her  grace  and  the  splendour  of  her 
royal  robes.  Listen  to  the  sweet  voice  that 
pleads  for  life  with  the  touching  reminder 
that,  as  yet,  she  stands  but  upon  its  threshold. 
Who  does  not  favour  her  lover  ?  Who  could 
wish  to  see  her  slain?  Great  gods,  what 
heart  so  hard!  None,  surely!  ...  On  the 


77 


APPENDIX 

contrary,  the  whole  audience  has  already  de- 
cided that  she  must  die  for  the  general  good 
rather  than  live  for  one  individual.  Achilles 
seems  to  all  too  grand,  too  superb !  Shall 
Iphigenia  be  borne  away  by  this  Thessalian 
vulture,  as,  not  long  ago,  the  daughter  of  Leda 
was  stolen  by  a  shepherd  prince  from  the 
voluptuous  shores  of  Asia?  This  is  the  ques- 
tion of  paramount  importance  to  the  Greeks 
and  to  the  audience  as  well,  which  takes  our 
measure  when  we  act  the  part  of  hero.  I 
felt  myself  as  much  an  object  of  hatred 
to  the  men  as  of  admiration  to  the  women 
when  I  thus  played  the  part  of  victorious 
lover,  because  it  was  no  indifferent  actress, 
taught  to  listlessly  drone  those  immortal 
verses,  that  I  was  defending,  but  a  true 
Greek  maiden,  a  pearl  of  grace,  purity  and 
love,  worthy,  indeed,  to  be  rescued  by  all 
human  efforts  from  the  hands  of  the  jealous 
gods.  Not  Iphigenia  alone,  she  was  Junia, 
Berenice,  all  the  heroines  rendered  illustri- 
ous by  the  fair  blue  eyes  of  Mile,  de  Champ- 
mesle,  or  the  charming  graces  of  the  noble 
maidens  of  Saint  Cyr.  Poor  Aurelie!  My 
comrade  and  my  sister,  wilt  thou  never  regret 
those  hours  of  triumph  and  rapture?  Didst 
thou  not  love  me  for  an  instant,  cold  star, 
when  I  fought  and  wept  and  suffered  for  thee  ? 
The  audience  questioned  nightly :  "  Who, 


APPENDIX 

pray,  is  this  actress,  so  far  beyond  all  that  we 
have  ever  applauded  ?  Are  we  not  mistaken  ? 
Is  she  really  as  young,  as  dazzling,  and  as 
pure  as  she  seems?"  The  young  women  en- 
vied, criticised  or  admired  sadly.  As  for  me, 
I  needed  to  see  her  constantly,  so  as  not  to 
feel  overpowered  by  her  beauty  and  to  be  able 
to  meet  her  eyes  whenever  the  exigencies  of 
the  plot  demanded.  .  .  . 

This  is  why  Achilles  was  my  triumph,  al- 
though I  was  often  embarrassed  in  other  parts. 
What  a  pity  that  I  could  not  change  the  situ- 
ations to  suit  me,  and  sacrifice  even  the 
thoughts  of  genius  to  my  love  and  respect! 
The  character  of  a  timid  and  captive  lover  like 
Britannicus  or  Bajazet,  did  not  please  me. 
The  purple  of  the  young  Caesar  attracted  me 
more;  but  what  a  misfortune  to  declaim  in 
conclusion  only  cold  and  perfidious  speeches ! 
What!  Was  this  young  Nero,  the  idol  of 
Rome,  the  handsome  athlete,  the  dancer,  the 
poet  whose  only  wish  was  to  please  the  popu- 
lace? Is  this  what  history  and  the  concep- 
tions of  our  poets  have  left  of  him?  Ah !  give 
me  his  fury  to  interpret ;  his  power  I  would 
fear  to  accept.  Nero !  I  have  comprehended 
thee,  not  alas !  according  to  Racine,  but  ac- 
cording to  my  own  heart,  torn  with  agony 
whenever  I  have  ventured  to  impersonate  thee ! 
Yes,  thou  wast  a  god,  thou  who  wouldst  have 


79 


APPENDIX 

burned  Rome.   Thou  wast  right,  perhaps,  since 
Rome  had  insulted  thee  !  .  .  . 

A  hiss,  a  miserable  hiss,  in  her  presence, 
and  because  of  her!  A  hiss  of  scorn 
which  she  attributes  to  herself  —  through 
my  mistake,  be  it  understood!  Alas!  my 
friends,  for  an  instant,  I  felt  an  impulse  to  show 
myself  truly  great,  immortal,  upon  the  stage  of 
your  theatre.  Instead  of  replying  to  the  insult 
by  another,  which  brought  upon  me  the  assault 
from  which  I  still  suffer,  instead  of  provoking 
a  vulgar  audience  to  rush  upon  the  scene 
and  cowardly  beat  and  belabour  me,  I  held 
for  a  moment  a  sublime  purpose,  worthy  of 
Caesar  himself,  a  purpose  which  none  could 
hesitate  to  pronounce  in  harmony  with  the 
dramatic  conceptions  of  the  great  Racine  him- 
self!  I  thought  to  set  fire  to  the  theatre,  and 
while  the  audience  perished  in  the  flames,  bear 
away  Aurelie  in  my  arms,  her  disheveled 
tresses  streaming  over  her  disordered  dress. 
O  remorse  that  fills  my  feverish  nights  and 
days  of  agony!  What!  I  might  have  done 
this  and  I  refrained!  What!  Do  ye  still 
insult  me,  ye,  who  owe  your  lives  to  pity, 
rather  than  any  fear  on  my  part?  I  might 
have  burned  them  all !  Judge  for  yourselves : 

the  theatre  of  P has  but  one  exit;   ours 

opened  upon  a  little  street  in  the  rear,  but  the 
green-room,  where  you  were  all  assembled,  is 


80 


APPENDIX 

on  the  other  side  of  the  stage.  In  order  to 
set  fire  to  the  curtain,  I  had  only  to  snatch 
down  one  of  the  lamps  ;  I  ran  no  risk  of  de- 
tection, for  the  manager  could  not  see  me  and 
I  was  alone  listening  to  the  insipid  dialogue 
between  Britannicus  and  Junia,  waiting  for  my 
cue  to  reappear;  all  through  that  scene  I  was 
struggling  with  myself,  and  when  I  entered 
upon  the  stage  I  was  turning  and  twisting  in  my 
fingers  a  glove  that  I  had  picked  up ;  I  expected 
to  avenge  myself  more  nobly  than  Caesar  himself 
of  an  insult  that  I  had  felt  with  all  the  heart  of  a 
Caesar.  .  .  .  Ah,  well !  the  cowards  dared  not 
begin  again;  my  glance  confounded  them, 
and  I  was  on  the  point  of  pardoning  the 
audience,  if  not  Junia  herself,  when  she 
dared.  .  .  .  Immortal  gods !  .  .  .  Hold,  let 
me  speak  my  mind!  .  .  .  Yes,  since  that 
night,  it  is  my  delusion  to  imagine  myself  a 
Roman,  an  emperor;  I  have  identified  myself 
with  my  part,  and  the  tunic  of  Nero  clings  to 
my  burning  limbs  as  that  of  the  centaur  to  the 
dying  Hercules.  Let  us  jest  no  more  with 
sacred  things,  not  even  those  of  an  age  and 
nation  long  since  past,  lest  perchance  some 
tongue  of  flame  yet  quiver  in  the  ashes  of  the 
gods  of  Rome  !  .  .  . 

Consider,  friends,  that  in  this  scene  more 
than  a  mere  repetition  of  measured  lines  was 
involved  and  three  hearts  contended  with  equal 


81 


APPENDIX 

chances,  where  as  in  the  arena,  life-blood 
itself  might  flow!  The  audience,  that  of  a 
small  town  where  there  are  no  secrets,  knew  it 
well  ;  those  women,  many  of  them  ready  to 
fall  at  my  feet,  could  I  be  false  to  my  one 
love,  those  men  all  jealous  of  me  on  her  ac- 
count, and  the  third,  well  chosen  for  the  part 
of  Britannicus,  the  poor,  stammering  suitor, 
who  trembled  before  me  in  her  presence,  but 
who  was  destined  to  be  my  conqueror  in  that 
fearful  contest  where  all  the  honours  were  re- 
served for  the  latest  comer.  ...  Ah !  the  no- 
vice in  love  knew  his  part  well.  . .  .  However, 
he  had  nothing  to  fear,  for  I  am  too  just  to 
condemn  another  for  the  same  love  that  I  feel 
myself ;  in  this  particular,  I  am  far  removed 
from  the  ideal  monster  of  the  poet  Racine;  I 
could  burn  Rome  without  hesitation,  but,  in 
saving  Junia,  I  should  also  save  my  brother, 
Britannicus. 

Yes,  my  brother,  yes,  frail  child  of  art  and 
fancy  like  myself,  thou  hast  conquered  in  the 
struggle,  having  merited  the  prize  for  which 
we  two  contended.  Heaven  preserve  me  from 
taking  advantage  of  my  age,  strength,  or  the 
fierce  courage  of  returning  health  to  question 
the  choice  or  the  caprice  of  her,  the  all- 
powerful,  impartial  divinity  of  my  dreams  and 
life  !  .  .  .  I  only  feared,  for  a  time,  lest  my  de- 
feat profit  thee  nothing  and  the  gay  suitors  of 


82 


APPENDIX 

the  town  wrest  from  us  both  the  prize  lost 
only  for  me. 

The  letter  which  I  have  just  received  from 
La  Caverne  reassures  me  fully  on  that  point. 
She  advises  me  to  renounce  an  art  for  which 
I  have  no  capacity  and  which  is  incompatible 
with  my  necessities.  The  jest,  in  sooth,  is 
bitter,  for  never  did  I  stand  in  greater  need,  if 
not  of  my  art,  at  least  of  its  swift  returns.  This 
is  just  the  point  that  you  do  not  understand. 
You  consider  that  you  have  acquitted  your- 
self of  all  obligations  toward  me  in  recom- 
mending me  to  the  authorities  of  Soissons  as 
a  distinguished  personage,  whom  his  family 
cannot  abandon,  but  whose  violent  illness 
has  forced  you  to  leave  him  behind  in  your 
journey.  Your  tool,  La  Rancune,  presented 
himself  at  the  town  hall  and  the  inn  with  all 
the  airs  of  a  Spanish  grandee  forced  by  un- 
pleasant circumstances  to  spend  a  couple  of 
nights  in  such  a  disagreeable  place ;  the  rest  of 

you  obliged  to  leave  P the  day  after  my 

disaster,  had,  as  I  conceive,  no  reason  to  allow 
yourselves  to  pass  merely  for  disreputable 
players :  it  is  quite  enough  to  wear  that  mask 
in  places  where  no  other  course  is  possible. 
As  for  me,  what  can  I  say,  how  shall  I  extri- 
cate myself  from  the  infernal  network  of  con- 
spiracy in  which  I  find  myself  caught  and 
held  through  the  machinations  of  La  Rancune  ? 


APPENDIX 

The  famous  couplet  from  Corneille's  "  Men- 
teur  "  assuredly  aided  him  in  his  invention  for 
the  wit  of  such  a  rascal  as  he  never  reached 
such  a  pitch.  Think  for  a  moment.  .  .  .  But 
what  can  I  tell  you  that  you  do  not  know 
already  and  have  not  devised  together  to  ruin 
me  ?  Have  not  the  white  fingers  of  the  ingrate 
who  is  the  cause  of  all  my  misfortunes,  tangled 
inextricably  all  the  silken  threads  that  she 
could  weave  about  her  poor  victim?  .  .  .  What 
a  master-plot !  Ah,  well !  I  am  a  captive  and 
I  confess  it;  I  yield  and  implore  mercy.  You 
can  take  me  back  without  fear  now,  and  if  the 
rapid  post-chaises  that  bore  you  swiftly  over 
the  Flanders'  route,  three  months  ago,  have 
already  given  place  to  the  humble  equipages 
of  our  first  adventures,  deign  at  least  to  re- 
ceive me  in  the  quality  of  monster  or  phe- 
nomenon, fit  to  draw  the  crowd,  and  I  pro- 
mise to  acquit  myself  of  these  duties  in  a  manner 
calculated  to  appease  the  most  exacting  ama- 
teur of  the  province.  .  .  .  Answer  immedi- 
ately and  I  will  send  a  trusty  messenger  to 
bring  me  the  letter  from  the  post,  as  I  fear 
the  curiosity  of  mine  host.  .  .  . 

BRISACIER. 

How  dispose  now  of  this  hero  deserted  by 
his  mistress  and  his  companions?  Is  he,  in 
truth,  only  a  strolling  player,  rightly  punished 


APPENDIX 

for  insulting  the  public,  for  indulging  in  his 
mad  jealousy  and  alleging  ridiculous  claims? 
How  can  he  prove  that  he  is  the  legitimate  son 
of  the  Khan  of  the  Crimea,  according  to  the 
crafty  recital  of  La  Rancune  ?  How,  from  the 
depths  of  misery  where  he  is  plunged,  can  he 
rise  to  the  highest  destiny?  These  are  points 
which  would,  doubtless,  trouble  you  but  little, 
but  which  have  thrown  my  mind  into  a  strange 
disorder.  Once  persuaded  that  I  was  writing 
my  own  history,  I  was  touched  by  this  love  for 
a  fugitive  star  which  deserted  me  in  the  dark 
night  of  my  destiny;  I  have  wept  and  shud- 
dered over  these  visions.  Then  a  ray  divine 
illumined  my  inferno;  surrounded  by  dim 
and  monstrous  shapes  of  horror  against  which 
I  struggled  blindly,  I  seized  at  last  the  magic 
clue,  the  thread  of  Ariadne,  and  since  then  all 
my  visions  have  become  celestial.  One  day, 
I  shall  write  the  history  of  this  "  Descent  to 
Hades,"  and  you  will  see  that  it  has  not 
been  entirely  devoid  of  reason,  if  it  has 
always  been  wanting  in  fact.  And,  since  you 
have  been  so  rash  as  to  cite  one  of  my  sonnets 
composed  in  this  state  of  supernatural  trance, 
as  the  Germans  call  it,  you  must  hear  the  rest. 
You  will  find  them  among  my  poems.  They 
are  little  more  obscure  than  the  metaphysics 
of  Hegel  or  the  Visions  of  Swedenborg,  and 
would  lose  their  charm  with  any  attempt  at 


APPENDIX 


explanation,  were    that  possible;  —  probably 
my  last  illusion  will  be  that  of  thinking  myself 
a  poet;  criticism  must  dispel  it. 
1854. 


86 


LOAN  DEPT. 


NOV 1  7 


• 


JUN  11  1990 


Mil  UK  MAY  |  7 

---  —  ,. 

MAR19  1991 


iSBSfeffiROTl  T7  .G««*al  Libr^r7 

University  of  California 
Berkeley 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


0052335883 


